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THE UNBROKEN COLT. — p. 227. 



Cfte ILotti ILgttcm IStution. 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


& llotiel 


BY 

SIR EDWARD BULWER IYTT0N, BART. 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME 



PHILADELPHIA 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1 8 79 . 





r v 




> ; v> 




TO THE 


RIGHT HONORABLE C. T. D'EYNCOURT, M.P. 

THIS WORK, 


IN PART COMPOSED UNDER HIS HOSPITABLE ROOT, 


IDeTjfcateti, 


AS A BLIGHT MEMORIAL OF AFFECTIONATE FRIENDSHIP 
AND SINCERE ESTEEM. 


KmrawORTH, 1845 


(T) 


l* 




















PREFACE 


TO 

THE EDITION OF 1845. 


MtTCH has been written by critics, especially oy 
those in Germany, (the native land of criticism,) 
upon the important question, whether to please or 
to instruct should be the end of Fiction — whether a 
moral purpose is or is not in harmony with the un- 
didactic spirit perceptible in the higher works of the 
imagination : And the general result of the discussion 
has been in favor of those who have contended that 
Moral design, rigidly so called, should be excluded 
from the aims of the Poet ; that his Art should regard 
only the Beautiful, and be contented with the indi- 
rect moral tendencies, which can never fail the crea- 
tion of the Beautiful. Certainly, in fiction, to inter- 
est, to p]ease, and sportively to elevate — to take man 
from the low passions, and the miserable troubles of 
life, into a higher region, to beguile weary and selfish 
pain, to excite a generous sorrow at vicissitudes not 
his own, to raise the passions into sympathy with 

(vii) 




PREFACE. 


heroic struggles — and to admit the soul into that 
serener atmosphere from which it rarely returns to 
ordinary existence, without some memory or associa- 
tion which ought to enlarge the domain of thought 
and exalt the motives of action; — such, without 
other moral result or object, may satisfy the Poet,* 
and constitute the highest and most universal morality 
he can effect. But subordinate to this, which is not 
the duty, but the necessity , of all Fiction that out- 
lasts the hour, the writer of imagination may well 
permit to himself other purposes and objects, taking 
care that they be not too sharply defined, and too 
obviously meant to contract the Poet into the Lec- 
turer — the Fiction into the Homily. The delight- 
in “ Shy lock” is not less vivid for the Humanity it 
latently but profoundly inculcates; the healthful 
merriment of the “ Tartuffe” is not less enjoyed for 
the exposure of the Hypocrisy it denounces. We 
need not demand from Shakspeare or from Moliere 
other morality than that which Genius unconsciously 
throws around it — the natural light which it re- 
flects ; but if some great principle which guides us 
practically in the daily intercourse with men becomes 
in the general lustre more clear and more pronounced 
— we gain doubly, by the general tendency and the 
particular result. 

Long since, in searching for new regions in the 


* I use the word Poet in its proper sense, as applicable to any 
writer, whether in verse or prose, who invents or creates. 


PREFACE. 


is 


Art to which I am a servant, it seemed to me tnat 
they might be found lying far, and rarely trodden, 
beyond that range of conventional morality in which 
Novelist after Novelist had entrenched himself — 
amongst those subtle recesses in the ethics of human 
life in which Truth and Falsehood dwell undisturbed 
and unseparated. The vast and dark Poetry around 
us — the Poetry of Modern Civilization and Daily 
Existence, is shut out from us in much, by the 
shadowy giants of Prejudice and Fear. He who 
would arrive at the Fairy Land, must face the Phan- 
toms. Betimes, I set myself to the task of investiga- 
ting the motley world to which our progress in 
humanity has attained, caring little what misrepre- 
sentation I incurred, what hostility I provoked, in 
searching through a devious labyrinth for the foot- 
tracks of Truth. 

In the pursuit of this object, I am, not vainly, con- 
scious that I have had my influence on my time — 
that I have contributed, though humbly and indi- 
rectly, to the benefits which Public Opinion has ex- 
torted from Governments and Laws. While (to con- 
tent myself with a single example) the ignorant or 
malicious were decrying the moral of “ Paul Clifford/’ 
I consoled myself with perceiving that its truths had 
stricken deep — that many, whom formal essays might 
not reach, were enlisted by the picture and the popu- 
lar ibrce of Fiction into the service of that large and 
Catholic Humanity which frankly examines into the 
causes of crime, which ameliorates the ills of society 


z 


preface. 


by seeking to amend the circumstances by which they 
are occasioned; and commences the great work of 
justice to mankind, by proportioning the punishment 
to the offence. That work, I know, had its share in 
the wise and great relaxation of our Criminal Code 
— it has had its share in results yet more valuable, 
because leading to more comprehensive reforms — viz., 
in the courageous facing of the ills which the mock 
decorum of timidity would shun to contemplate, but 
which, till fairly fronted, in the spirit of practical 
Christianity, sap daily, more and more, the walls in 
which blind Indolence would protect itself from rest- 
less Misery and rampant Hunger. For it is not till 
Art has told the unthinking that nothing ( rightly 
treated) is too low for its breath to vivify, and its 
wings to raise, that the Herd awaken from their 
chronic lethargy of contempt, and the Lawgiver is 
compelled to redress what the Poet has lifted into 
esteem. In thus enlarging the boundaries of the 
Novelist, from trite and conventional to untrodden 
ends, I have seen, not with the jealousy of an Author, 
but with the pride of an Originator, that I have 
served as a guide to later and abler writers, both in 
England and abroad. If at times, while imitating, 
they have mistaken me, I am not answerable for their 
errors ; or if, more often, they have improved where 
they borrowed, I am not envious of their laurels. 
They owe me at least this, that I prepared the way 
for their reception, and that they would have been 
less popular and more misrepresented, if the outcry 


PREFACE. 


xi 


which bursts upon the first researches into new direc- 
tions, had not exhausted its noisy vehemence upon me. 

In this Hovel of “ Night and Morning” I have had 
various ends in view — subordinate, I grant, to the 
higher and more durable morality which belongs to 
the Ideal, and instructs us playfully while it interests, 
in the passions, and through the heart. First — to 
deal fearlessly with that universal unsoundness in 
social justice which makes distinctions so marked and 
iniquitous between Vice and Crime — viz., between 
the corrupting habits and the violent act — which 
scarce touches the former with the lightest twig in 
the fasces — which lifts against the latter the edge 
of the Lictor’s axe. Let a child steal an apple in 
sport, let a starveling steal a roll in despair, and Law 
conducts them to the Prison, for evil commune to 
mellow them for the gibbet. But let a man spend 
one apprenticeship from youth to old age in vice — 
let him devote a fortune, perhaps colossal, to the 
wholesale demoralization of his kind — and he may 
be surrounded with the adulation of the so-called 
virtuous, and be served upon its knee, by that Lackey 
— the Modern World ! I say not that Law can, or 
that Law should, reach the vice as it does the Crime ; 
but I say, that Opinion may be more than the servile 
shadow of Law. I impress not here, as in “ Paul 
Clifford,” a material moral to work its effect on the 
Journals, at the Hustings, through Constituents, and 
on Legislation ; — I direct myself to a channel less 
active, more tardy, but as sure — to the Conscience 


Xii PREFACE. 

t 

that reigns, elder and superior to all Law, in men’s 
hearts and souls; — I utter boldly and loudly a 
truth, if not all untold, murmured feebly and falter- 
ingly before, — sooner or later it will find its way 
into the judgment and the conduct, and shape out a 
tribunal which requires not robe or ermine. 

Secondly — In this work I have sought to lift the 
mask from the timid selfishness which too often with 
us bears the name of Respectability. Purposely 
avoiding all attraction that may savor of extrava- 
gance, patiently subduing every tone and every hue 
to the aspect of those whom we njeet daily in our 
thoroughfares, I have shown in Robert Beaufort the 
man of decorous phrase and bloodless action — the 
systematic self-server — in whom the world forgive 
the lack of all that is generous, warm, and noble, in 
order to respect the passive acquiescence in methodi- 
cal conventions and hollow forms. And how common 
such men are with us in this century, and how in- 
* viting and how necessary their delineation, may be 
seen in this, — that the popular and pre-eminent 
Observer of the age in which we live, has since placed 
their prototype in vigorous colors upon imperishable 
canvas.* 

There is yet another object with which I have 
identified my tale. I trust that I am not insensible 
to such advantages as arise from the diffusion of 


* Need I say that I allude to the “ Pecksniff” of Mr. Dickens? 


PREFACE. 


xiii 


education really sound, and knowledge really avail- 
able ; — for these, as the right of my countrymen, I 
have contended always. But of late years there has 
been danger that what ought to be an important 
truth may be perverted into a pestilent fallacy. 
Whether for rich or for poor, disappointment must 
ever await the endeavor to give knowledge without 
labor, and experience without trial. Cheap literature 
and popular treatises do not in themelves suffice to 
fit the nerves of man for the strife below, and lift 
his aspirations, in healthful confidence above. He 
who seeks to divorce toil from knowledge deprives 
knowledge of its most valuable property, — the 
strengthening of the mind by exercise. We learn 
what really braces and elevates us only in proportion 
to the effort it costs us. Nor is it in Books alone, 
nor in Books chiefly, that we are made conscious of 
our strength as Men ; Life is the great Schoolmaster, 
Experience the mighty Volume. He who has made 
one stern sacrifice of self, has acquired more than he 
will ever glean from the odds-and-ends of popular 
philosophy : And the man, the least scholastic, may 
be more robust in the power that is knowledge, and 
approach nearer to the Arch-Seraphim, than Bacon 
himself, if he cling fast to two simple maxims — “ Be 
honest in temptation, and in Adversity believe in 
God.” Such moral, attempted before in “ Eugene 
Aram,” I have enforced more directly here ; and out 
of such convictions I have created hero and heroine, 
placing them in their primitive and natural charac- 
ters, with aid more from life than books — from 
I. — 2 


XIV 


PREFACE. 


courage the one, from affection the other — amidst 
the feeble Hermaphrodites of our sickly civilization ; — 
examples of resolute Manhood and tender Womanhood. 

The opinions I have here put forth are not in 
fashion at this day. But I have never consulted the 
popular any more than the sectarian, Prejudice. 
Alone and unaided, I have hewn out my way, from 
first to last, by the force of my own convictions. 
The corn springs up in the field centuries after the 
first sower is forgotten. Works may perish with the 
workman ; but, if truthful, their results are in the 
works of others, imitating, borrowing, enlarging, and 
improving, in the everlasting Cycle of Industry and 
Thought. 

Knebworth, 1846 . 


NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION, 1851, 


1 have nothing to add to the preceding pages, 
written six years ago, as to the objects and aims of 
this work ; — except to say, and by no means as a 
boast, that the work lays claims to one kind of 
interest which I certainly never desired to effect for 
it — viz., in exemplifying the glorious uncertainty of 
the law. For, humbly aware of the blunders which 
novelists not belonging to the legal profession are 
apt to commit, when they summon to the denouement 
of a plot the aid of a deity so mysterious as Themis, 
I submitted to an eminent lawyer the whole case of 
“ Beaufort versus Beaufort,” as it stands in this 
Novel. And the pages which refer to that suit were 
not only written from the opinion annexed to the 
brief I sent in, but submitted to the eye of my 
counsel, and revised by his pen. — N.B. He was feed. 
Judge then my dismay when I heard long afterwards 
that the late Mr. O’Connell disputed the soundness 
of the law I had thus bought and paid for ! “ Who 
shall decide when doctors disagree ! ” All I can say 


is, that I took the best opinion that love or money 
could get me : and I should add, that my lawyer, un- 
awed by the alleged ipse dixit of the great Agitator 
(to be sure, he is dead), still stoutly maintains . his 
own views of the question.* Let me hope that the 
right heir will live long enough to come under the 
Statute of Limitations. Possession is nine points of 
the law, and may Time give the tenth. 


* I have, however, thought it prudent so far to meet the objec- 
tion suggested by Mr. O’Connell, as to make a slight alteration in 
this edition, which will probably prevent the objection, if correct, 
being of any material practical effect on the disposition of thftl 
visionary El Dorado — The Beaufort Property. 


Knebtportk. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


BOOK FIRST 

•• 5Rod) in nieineS Ceben$ Uenje 
SDBar id) unb id) iranbert’ au$, 

Unb bee 3ugenb frolje lanje 
fiief id) in be$ *ater$ £au8.” 

Schiller, Der Pilgnn 






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NIGHT AND MORNING 


BOOK FIRST. 


INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 

“Now rests our vicar. They who knew him best, 

Proclaim his life to have been entirely rest ; 

Nor one so old has left this world of sin, 

More like the being that he entered in.” — Crabbe. 

In one of the Welsh counties is a small village called 

A . It is somewhat removed from the high-road, 

and is, therefore, but little known to those luxurious 
amateurs of the Picturesque, who view Nature through 
the windows of a carriage-and-four. Nor, indeed, is tnere 
anything, whether of scenery or association, in the place 
Itself, sufficient to allure the more sturdy enthusiast from 
the beaten tracks which tourists and guide-books prescribe 
to those who search the Sublime and Beautiful amidst the 
mountain homes of the ancient Britons. Still, on the 
whole, the village is not without its attractions. It is 
placed in a small valley, through which winds and leaps, 

( 19 ) 


20 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


dowL many a rocky fall — a clear, babbling, noisy 
rivulet, that affords excellent sport to the brethren of the 
angle. Thither, accordingly, in the summer season occa- 
sionally resort the Waltons of the neighborhood — young 
farmers, retired traders, with now and then a stray artist, 
or a roving student from one of the Universities. Hence 
the solitary hostelry of A , being somewhat more fre- 

quented, is also more clean and comfortable than could be 
reasonably anticipated from the insignificance and re- 
moteness of the village. 

At a time in which my narrative opens, the village 
boasted a sociable, agreeable, careless, half-starved par- 
son, who never failed to introduce himself to any of the 
anglers who, during the summer months, passed a day or 
two in the little valley. The Rev. Mr. Caleb Price had 
been educated at the University of Cambridge, where he 
had contrived, in three years, to run through a little for- 
tune of 3500Z. It is true, that he acquired in return the 
art of making milk-punch, the science of pugilism, and 
the reputation of one of the best-natured, rattling, open- 
hearted companions whom you could desire by your side 
in a tandem to Newmarket, or in a row with the barge- 
men. By the help of these gifts and accomplishments, he 
had not failed to find favor, while his money lasted, with 
the young aristocracy of the “ Gentle Mother.” And, 
though the very reverse of an ambitious or calculating 
man, he had certainly nourished the belief that some one 
or the hats or tinsel gowns — i. e., young lords or fellow- 
commoners, with whom he was on such excellent terms, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


21 


and who supped with him so often — would do something 
for him in the way of a living. But it so happened that 
when Mr. Caleb Price had, with a little difficulty, scram- 
bled through his degree, and found himself a; Bachelor of 
Arts and at the end of his finances, his grand acquaint- 
ances parted from him to their various posts in the State 
Militant of Life. And, with the exception of one, joyous 
and reckless as himself, Mr. Caleb Price found that when 
Money makes itself wings, it flies away with our friends. 
As poor Price had earned no academical distinction, so 
he could expect no advancement from his college ; no fel- 
lowship ; no tutorship leading hereafter to livings, stalls, 
and deaneries. Poverty began already to stare him in 
the face, when the only friend who, having shared his 
prosperity, remained true to his adverse fate — a friend, 
fortunately for him, of high connexions and brilliant 
prospects — succeeded in obtaining for him the humble 

living of A . To this primitive spot the once jovial 

roister cheerfully retired — contrived to live contented 
upon an income somewhat less than he had formerly given 
to his groom — preached very short sermons to a very 
scanty and ignorant congregation, some of whom only 
understood Welsh — did good to the poor and sick in his 
own careless, slovenly way — and, uncheered, or un vexed 
by wife and children, he rose in summer with the lark, 
and in winter went to bed at nine precisely, to save coals 
and candles. For the rest, he was the most skilful angler 
in the whole county ; and so willing to communicate the 
results of his experience as to the most taking color of 


22 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the flies, and the most favored haunts of the trout — that 
he had given especial orders at the inn, that whenever 
any strange gentleman came to fish, Mr. Caleb Price 
should be immediately sent for. In this, to be sure, our 
worthy pastor had his usual recompense. First, if the 
stranger were tolerably liberal, Mr. Price was asked to 
dinner at the inn ; and, secondly, if this failed, from the 
poverty or the churlishness of the obliged party, Mr. 
Price still had an opportunity to hear the last news — to 
talk about the Great World — in a word, to exchange 
ideas, and perhaps to get an old newspaper, or an odd 
number of a magazine. 

Now, it so happened that one afternoon in October, 
when the periodical excursions of the anglers, becoming 
gradually rarer and more rare, had altogether ceased, 
Mr. Caleb Price was summoned from his parlor, in which 
he had been employed in the fabrication of a net for his 
cabbages, by a little white-headed boy, who came to 
say there was a gentleman at the inn who wished imme- 
diately to see him — a strange gentleman, who had never 
been there before. 

Mr. Price threw down his net, seized his hat, and, in 
less than five minutes, he was in the best room of the little 
inn. 

The person there awaiting him was a man who, though 
plainly clad in a velveteen shooting-jacket, had an air 
and mien greatly above those common to the pedestrian 
visitors of A . He was tall, and of one of those ath- 

letic forms in which vigor in youth is too often followed 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


23 


by corpulence in age. At this period, however, in the 
full prime of manhood — the ample chest and sinewy 
limbs, seen to full advantage in their simple and manly 
dress — could not fail to excite that popular admiration 
which is always given to strength in the one sex as to 
delicacy in the other. The stranger was walking impa- 
tiently to and fro the small apartment when Mr. Price 
entered; and then, turning to the clergyman a counte* 
nance handsome and Striking, but yet more prepossessing 
from its expression of frankness than from the regularity 
of its features, — he stopped short, held out his hand, and 
said, with a gay laugh, as he glanced over the parson’s 
threadbare and slovenly costume, — “ My poor Caleb I — 
what a metamorphosis ! — I should not have known you 
again ! ” 

“ What 1 you! Is it possible, my dear fellow ? — how 
glad I am to see you ! What on earth can bring you to 
such a place ! No 1 not a soul would believe me if I said 
I had seen you in this miserable hole.” 

“ That is precisely the reason why I am here. Sit 
down, Caleb, and we’ll talk over matters as soon as our 
landlord has brought up the materials for ” 

“ The milk-punch,” interrupted Mr. Price, rubbing his 
hands. “Ah, that will bring us back to old times, in- 
deed!” 

In a few minutes the punch was prepared, and after 
two or three preparatory glasses, the stranger thus com- 
menced : — 

My dear Caleb, I am in want of your assistance, and, 
above all, of your secrecy.” 

• ' 


24 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“I promise you both beforehand. It will make me 
nappy the rest of my life to think I have served my patron 
— my benefactor — the only friend I possess.” 

“Tush, man! don’t talk of that: we shall do better 
for you one of these days. But now to the point : I have 
come here to be married — married, old boy ! married ! ” 

And the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and 
chuckled with the glee of a school-boy. 

“ Humph ! ” said the parson, gravely. “ It is a serious 
thing to do, and a very odd place to come to.” 

“ I admit both propositions : this punch is superb. To 
proceed. You know that my uncle’s immense fortune is 
at his own disposal ; if I disobliged him, he would be 
capable of leaving all to my brother ; I should disoblige 
him irrevocably if he knew that I had married a trades- 
man’s daughter ; I am going to marry a tradesman’s 
daughter — a girl in a million ! the ceremony must be as 
secret as possible. And in this church, with you for the 
priest, I do not see a chance of discovery.” 

“ Do you marry by licence ? ” 

“ No, my intended is not of age ; and we keep the 
secret even from her father. In this village you will 
mumble over the Bans without one of your congregation 
ever taking heed of the name. I shall stay here a month 
f or the purpose. She is in London, on a visit to a rela- 
tion in the city. The Bans on her side will be published 
with equal privacy in a little church near the Tower, where 
my name will be no less unknown than here. Oh, I’ve 
contrived it famously ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


25 


“But, ray dear fellow, consider what you risk.” 

“ I have considered all, and I find every chance in my 
favor. The bride will arrive here on the day of our wed- 
ding : my servant will be one witness; some stupid old 
Welshman, as antediluvian as possible — I leave it to you 
to select him — shall be the other. My servant I shall 
dispose of, and the rest I can depend on.” 

“ But ” 

“ I detest buts ; if I had to make a language, I would 
not admit such a word in it. And now, before I run on 
about Catherine, a subject quite inexhaustible, tell me, 
my dear friend, something about yourself.” 

* * * * * * 

Somewhat more than a month had elapsed since the 
arrival of the stranger at the village inn. He had changed 
his quarters for the Parsonage — went out but little, and 
then chiefly on foot-excursions among the sequestered 
hills in the neighborhood : he was therefore but partially 
known by sight, even in the village ; and the visit of 
some old college friend to the minister, though indeed it 
had never chanced before, was not, in itself, so remarkable 
an event as to excite any particular observation. The 
Bans had been duly, and half audibly, hurried over, after 
the service was concluded, and while the scanty congre- 
gation were dispersing down the little aisle of the church 
— when one morning a chaise and pair arrived at the 
Parsonage. A servant out of livery leaped from the box. 
The stranger opened the door of the chaise, and, utter- 
ing a joyous exclamation, gave his arm to a lady, who, 

I. — 3 


26 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


trembling and agitated, could scarcely, even with that 
stalwart support, descend the steps. “Ah ! ” she saiti^ 
in a voice choked with tears, when they found themselves 
alone in the little parlor — “ ah ! if you knew how I have 
suffered ! ” 

How is it that certain words, and those the homeliest 

— which the hand writes and the eye reads as trite and 
commonplace expressions — when spoken , convey so much 

— so many meanings complicated and refined ? “Ah ! if 
you knew how I have suffered ! ” 

When the lover heard these words, his gay counte- 
nance fell ; he drew back — his conscience smote him : in 
that complaint was the whole history of a clandestine 
love, not for both the parties, but for the woman — the 
painful secrecy — the remorseful deceit — the shame — 

i . 

the fear — the sacrifice. She who uttered those words 
was scarcely sixteen. It is an early age to leave Child- 
hood behind for ever ! 

“ My own love 1 you have suffered, indeed ; but it is 
over now.” 

“Over! And what will they say of me — what will 
they think of me at home ? Over! Ah!” 

“ It is but for a short time ; in the course of Nature, 
my uncle cannot live long : all then will be explained. 
Our marriage once made public, all connected with you 
will be proud to own you. You will have wealth, station 

— a name among the first in the gentry of England. But, 

above all, you will have the happiness to think that your 
forbearance for a time has^ saved me, and, it may be, oui 
children, sweet one! — from poverty and ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


21 


“ It is enough,” interrupted the girl ; and the expres- 
sion of her countenance became serene and elevated. “It 
is for you — for your sake. I know what you hazard: 
how much I must owe you ! — Forgive me, this is the last 
murmur you shall ever hear from these lips.” 

An hour after these words were spoken, the marriage 
ceremony was concluded. 

“ Caleb,” said the bridegroom, drawing the clergyman 
aside as they were about to re-enter the house, “ you will 
keep your promise, I know ; and you think I may depend 
implicitly upon the good faith of the witness you have 
selected 1 ” 

“ Upon his good faith? — no,” said Caleb, smiling; 
“ but upon his deafness, his ignorance, and his age. My 
poor old clerk ! he will have forgotten all about it before 
this day three months. Now I have seen your lady, I 
no longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. I never 
beheld so lovely a countenance. You will be happy 1 ” 
And the village priest sighed, and thought of the coming 
winter and his own lonely hearth. 

“ My dear friend, you have only seen her beauty — it is 
her least charm. Heaven knows how often I have made 
love ; and this is the only woman I have ever really loved 
Caleb, there is an excellent living that adjoins my uncle’s 
house. The rector is old ; when the house is mine, you 
will not be long without the living. We shall be neigh- 
bors, Caleb, and then you shall try and find a bride for 
yourself. Smith,” — and the bridegroom turned to the 
servant who had accompanied his wife, and served as a 


28 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


second witness to the marriage, — “tell the post-boy to 
put-to the horses immediately. ” 

“Yes, sir. May I speak a word with you?” 

“Well, what?” 

“ Your uncle, sir, sent for me to come to him, the day 
before we left town.” 

“Aha ! — indeed 1 ” 

“And I could just pick up among his servants that he 
had some suspicion — at least, that he had been making 
inquiries — and seemed very cross, sir.” 

“You went to him?” 

“ No, sir, I was afraid. He has such a way with him ; 
— whenever his eye is fixed on mine, I always feel as if 
it was impossible to tell a lie ; and — and — in short, I 
thought it was best not to go.” 

“ You did right. Confound this fellow ! ” muttered the 
bridegroom, turning away ; “ he is honest, and loves me : 
yet, if my uncle sees him, he is clumsy enough to betray 
all. Well, I always meant to get him out of the way — 
the sooner the better. Smith I ” 

“ Yes, sir 1 ” 

“ You have often said that you would like, if you had 
some cap'ital, to settle in Australia: your father is an 
excellent farmer ; you are above the situation you hold 
with me ; you are well educated, and have some know- 
ledge of agriculture ; you can scarcely fail to make a for- 
tune as a settler ; and if you are of the same mind still, 
why look you, I have just £1000 at my banker’s : you 
shall have half, if you like to sail by the first packet.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


29 


“Oh, sir, you are too generous.” 

“Nonsense — no thanks — I am more prudent than 
generous ; for I agree with you that it is all up with me 
if my uncle gets hold of you. I dread my prying brother, 
too ; in fact, the obligation is on my side : only stay abroad 
till I am a rich man, and my marriage made public, and 
then you may ask of me what you will. It’s agreed, then ; 
order the horses, we’ll go round by Liverpool, and learn 
about the vessels. By the way, my good fellow, I hope 
you see nothing now of that good-for-nothing brother of 
yours ? ” 

“ No, indeed, sir. It’s a thousand pities he has turned 
out so ill ; for he was the cleverest of the family, and could 
always twist me round his little finger.” 

“ That’s the very reason I mentioned him. If he learned 
our secret, he would take it to an excellent market. Where 
is he ? ” 

“Hiding, I suspect, sir.” 

“ Well, we shall put the sea between you and him ! So 
now all’s safe.” 

Caleb stood by the porch of his house as the bride and 
bridegroom entered their humble vehicle. Though then 
November, the day was exquisitely mild and calm, the sky 
without a cloud, and even the leafless trees seemed to 
smile beneath the cheerful sun. And the young bride 
wept no more ; she was with him she loved — she was his 
for ever. She forgot the rest. The hope — the heart of 
sixteen — spoke brightly out through the blushes that 
mantled over her fair cheeks. The bridegroom’s frank 
3 * 


30 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

and manly countenance was radiant with joy. As he 
waved his hand to Caleb from the window, the post-boy 
cracked his whip, the servant settled himself on the dickey, 
the horses started off in a brisk trot, — the clergyman was 
left alone ! 

To be married is certainly an event in life ; to marry 
other people is, for a priest, a very ordinary occurrence ; 
and yet, from that day, a great change began to operate 
in the spirits and the habits of Caleb Price. Have you 
ever, my gentle reader, buried yourself for some time 
quietly in the lazy ease of a dull country life ? have you 
ever become gradually accustomed to its monotony, and 
inured to its solitude ; and, just at the time when you 
have half forgotten the great world — that mare magnum 
that frets and roars in the distance — have you ever re- 
ceived in your calm retreat some visitor, full of the busy 
and excited life which you imagined yourself contented 
to relinquish ? If so, have you not perceived, — that, in 
proportion as his presence and communication either re- 
vived old memories, or brought before you new pictures 
of “the bright tumult ” of that existence of which your 
guest made a part, — you began to compare him curiously 
with yourself ; you began to feel that what before was to 
rest, is now to rot ; that your years are gliding from you 
unenjoyed and wasted ; that the contrast between the 
animal life of passionate civilization and the vegetable 
torpor of motionless seclusion is one that, if you are still 
young, it tasks your philosophy to bear, — feeling all the 
while that the torpor may be yours to your grave ? And 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


31 


when your guest has left you, when you are again alone, 
is the solitude the same as it was before ? 

Our poor Caleb had for years rooted his thoughts to 
his village. His guest had been, like the Bird in tne 
Fairy Tale, settling upon the quiet branches, and singing 
so loudly and so gladly of the enchanted skies afar, that, 
when it flew away, the tree pined, nipped and withering 
in the sober sun in which before it had basked contented. 
— The guest was, indeed, one of those men whose animal 
spirits exercise upon such as come within their circle the 
influence and power usually ascribed only to intellectual 
qualities. During the month he had sojourned with 
Caleb, he had brought back to the poor parson all the 
gaiety of the brisk and noisy novitiate that preceded the 
solemn vow and the dull retreat — the social parties, the 
merry suppers, the open-handed, open-hearted fellowship 
of riotous, delightful, extravagant, thoughtless youth. 
And Caleb was not a book-man — not a scholar; he had 
no resources in himself, no occupation but his indolent 
and ill-paid duties. The emotions, therefore, of the Active 
Man were easily aroused within him. But if this com- 
parison between his past and present life rendered him 
restless and disturbed, how much more deeply and last- 
ingly was he affected by a contrast between his own future 
and that of his friend ! not in those points where he 
could never hope equality — wealth and station — the con- 
ventional distinctions to which, after all, a man of ordi- 
nary sense must sooner or later reconcile himself — but in 
that one respect wherein all, high and low, pretend to 


32 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the same rights — rights which a man of moderate warmth 
of feeling can never willingly renounce — viz., a partner 
in a lot, however obscure ; a kind face by a hearth, no 
matter how mean it be ! And his happier friend, like all 
men full of life, was full of himself — full of his love, of 
his future, of the blessings of home, and wife, and chil- 
dren. Then, too, the young bride seemed so fair, so con- 
fiding, and so tender ; so formed to grace the noblest, or 
to cheer the humblest home ! And both were so happy, 
so all in all each to each other, as they left that barren 
threshold ! And the priest felt all this, as, melancholy 
and envious, he turned from the door in that November 
day, to find himself thoroughly alone. He now began 
seriously to muse upon those fancied blessings which men 
wearied with celibacy see springing, heavenward, behind 
the altar. A few weeks afterwards a notable change was 
visible in the good man’s exterior. He became more care- 
ful of his dress, he shaved every morning, he purchased a 
crop-eared Welsh cob ; and it was soon known in the 
neighborhood, that the only journey the cob was ever 
condemned to take was to the house of a certain squire, 
who, amidst a family of all ages, boasted two very pretty 
marriageable daughters That was the second holyday- 
time of poor Caleb — the love-romance of his life : it soon 
closed. On learning the amount of the pastor’s stipend, 
the squire refused to receive his addresses ; and, shortly 
after, the girl to whom he had attached himself, made 
what the world calls a happy match : and perhaps it was 
one, for I never heard that she regretted the forsaken 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


33 


lover. Probably Caleb was not one of those whose place 
in a woman’s heart is never to be supplied. The lady 
married, the world went round as before, the brook danced 
as merrily through the village, the poor worked on the 
week-days, and the urchins gambolled round the grave- 
stones on the Sabbath, — and the pastor’s heart was broken, 
lie languished gradually and silently away. The villagers 
observed that he had lost his old good-humored smile ; 
that he did not stop every Saturday evening at the car- 
rier’s gate, to ask if there were any news stirring in the 
town which the carrier weekly visited ; that he did not 
come to borrow the stray newspapers that now and then 
found their way into the village ; that, as he sauntered 
along the brook-side, his clothes hung loose on his limbs, 
and that he no longer “ whistled as he went ; ” alas, he 
was no longer “in want of thought !” By degrees, the 
walks themselves were suspended ; the parson was no 
longer visible : a stranger performed his duties. 

One day, it might be some three years and more after 
the fatal visit I have commemorated — one very wild, 
rough day in early March, the postman, who made the 
round of the district, rung at the parson’s bell. The 
single female servant, her red hair loose on her neck, re- 
| lied to the call. 

“And how is the master?” 

“ Very bad ; ” and the girl wiped her eyes. 

“ He should leave you something handsome,” remarked 
the postman, kindly, as he pocketed the money for the 
tetter. 


34 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


The Pastor was in bed — the boisterous wind rattled 
down the chimney and shook the ill-fitting casement in 
its rotting frame. The clothes he had last worn were 
thrown carelessly about, unsmoothed, unbrushed ; the 
scanty articles of furniture were out of their proper 
places: slovenly discomfort marked the death-chamber. 
And by the bedside stood a neighboring clergyman, a 
stout, rustic, homely, thoroughly Welsh priest, whc. might 
hive sat for the portrait of Parson Adams. 

“ Here’s a letter for you,” said the visitor. 

“ For me ! ” echoed Caleb, feebly. “Ah — well —is it 
not very dark, or are my eyes failing The clergyman 
and the servant drew aside the curtains, and propped the 
sick man up : he read as follows, slowly, and with diffi- 
culty : — 

“ Dear Caleb, — At last I can do something for you. 
A friend of mine has a living in his gift just vacant, worth, 
I understand, from three to four hundred a year ; pleasant 
neighborhood — small parish. And my friend keeps the 
hounds !— just the thing for you. He is, however, a very 
particular sort of person — wants a companion, and has a 
horror of anything evangelical ; wishes, therefore, to see 
you before he decides. If you can meet me in London, 
some day next month, I’ll present you to him, and I have 
no doubt it will be settled. You must think it strange I 
never wrote to you since we parted, but you know I never 
was a very good correspondent ; and as I had nothing to 
communicate advantageous to you, I thought it a sort of 


/ 


NIGHT AN.D MORNING. 


3 .* 

insult to enlarge on my own happiness, and so forth. AI 
I shall say on that score is, that I’ve sown my wild oats ; 
and that you may take my word for it, there’s nothing 
that can make a man know how large the heart is, and 
how little the world, till he comes home (perhaps after a 
hard day’s hunting) and sees his own fireside, and hears 
one dear welcome ; and — oh, by the way, Caleb, if you 
could but see my boy, the sturdiest little rogue ! But 
enough of this. All that vexes me is, that I’ve never yet 
been able to declare my marriage : my uncle, however, 
suspects nothing : my wife bears up against all, like an 
angel as she is ; still, in case of any accident, it occurs to 
me, now I’m writing to you, especially if you leave the 
place, that it may be as well to send me an examined copy 
of the register. In those remote places registers are often 
lost or mislaid ; and it may be useful hereafter, when I 
proclaim the marriage, to clear up all doubt as to the 
fact. 

“Good-bye, old fellow, 
“Yours most truly, 

&c. &c.” 

“ It comes too late,” sighed Caleb, heavily ; and the 
letter fell from his hands. There was a long pause. 
“ Close the shutters,” said the sick man, at last ; “ I think 
I could sleep : and — and — pick up that letter.” 

With a trembling, but eager gripe, he seized the paper 
as a miser would seize the deeds of an estate on which he 
nas a mortgage. He smoothed the folds, looked compla- 


36 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


cently at the well-known hand, smiled — a ghastly smile 1 
* — and then placed the letter under his pillow, and sank 
down : they left him alone. He did not wake for some 
hours, and that good clergyman, poor as himself, was 
again at his post. The only friendships that are really 
with us in the hour of need, are those which are cemented 
by equality of circumstance. In the depth of home, in 
the hour of tribulation, by the bed of death, the rich and 
the poor are seldom found side by side. Caleb was evi- 
dently much feebler ; but his sense seemed clearer than it 
had been, and the instincts of his native kindness were 
the last that left him. “ There is something he wants 
me to do for him,” he muttered. “Ah ! I remember : 
Jones, will you send for the parish register ? — It is some- 
where in the vestry-room, I think — but nothing’s kept 
properly. Better go yourself — ’tis important.” 

Mr. Jones nodded, and sallied forth. The register was 
not in the vestry ; the church-wardens knew nothing about 
it ; the clerk — a new clerk, who was also the sexton, and 
rather a wild fellow — had gone ten mil-es off to a wedding : 
every place was searched ; till, at last, the book was 
found, amidst a heap of old magazines and dusty papers, 
in the parlor of Caleb himself. By the time it was' 
brought to him, the sufferer was fast declining; with 
some difficulty his dim eye discovered the place where, 
amidst the clumsy pot-hooks of the parishioners, the 
large clear hand of his old friend, and the trembling 
eharacters of the bride, looked forth, distinguished. 

“Extract this for me, will you,” said Caleb. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


3* 

Mr Jones obeyed. 

“Now, just write above the extract: — 

“ Sir, — By Mr. Price’s desire I send you the enclosed. 
He is too ill to write himself. But he bids me say that 
he has never been quite the same man since you left him ; 
and that, if he should not get well again, still your kind 
letter has made him easier in his mind.” 

Caleb stopped. 

“ Go on.” 

“ That is all I have to say : sign your name, and put 
the address — here it is. Ah, the letter (he muttered) 
must not lie about 1 If anything happen to me, it may 
get him into trouble.” 

And as Mr. Jones sealed his communication, Caleb 
feebly stretched his wan hand, and held the letter which 
had “ come too late” over the flame of the candle. As 
the blazing paper dropped on the carpetless floor, Mr. 
Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole of his top- 
boot, and the maid servant brushed the tinder into the 
grate. 

“Ah, trample it out: — hurry it amongst the ashes. 
The last as the rest,” said Caleb hoarsely. “ Friendship, 
fortune, hope, love, life — a little flame, and then — and 
then ” 

“Don’t be uneasy — it’s quite out !” said Mr. Jones. 

Caleb turned his face to the wall. He lingered till the 
next day, when he passed insensibly from sleep to death 
As soon as the breath was out of his body, Mr. Jones 
felt that his duty was discharged, that other duties called 

I —4 


38 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


hint home. He promised to return to read the burial- 
service over the deceased, gave some hasty orders about 
the plain funeral, and was turning from the room, when 
he saw the letter he had written by Caleb’s, wish, still 
on the table. “I pass the post-office — I’ll put it in,” 
said he to the weeping servant ; “ and just give me that 
scrap of paper.” So he wrote on the scrap, “P.S. He 
died this morning at half-past twelve, without pain. — 
M. J. and, not taking the trouble to break the seal, 
thrust the final bulletin into the folds of the letter, which 
he then carefully placed in his vest-pocket, and safely 
transferred to the post. And that was all that the jovial 
and happy man, to whom the letter was addressed, ever 
heard of the last days of his college friend. 

The living, vacant by the death of Caleb Price, was 
not so valuable as to plague the patron with many appli- 
cations. It continued vacant nearly the whole of the six 
months prescribed by law. And the desolate parsonage 
was committed to the charge of one of the villagers, who 
had occasionally assisted Caleb in the care of his little 
garden. The villager, his wife, and half-a-dozen noisy, 
ragged children, took possession of the quiet bachelor’s 
abode. The furniture had been sold to pay the expenses 
of the funeral, and a few trifling bills ; and, save the 
kitchen and the two attics, the empty house, uninhabited, 
was surrendered to the sportive mischief of the idle urch- 
ins, who prowled about the silent chambeis in fear of the 
silence, and in ecstacy at the space. The bed-room in 
which Caleb had died was, indeed, long held sacred by 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 

infantine superstition. But one day the eldest boy hav- 
ingv ventured across the threshold, two cupboards, the 
doors standing ajar, attracted the child’s curiosity. He 
opened one, and his exclamation soon brought the rest 
of the children round him. Have you ever, reader, when 
a boy, suddenly stumbled on that El Dorado, called by 
the grown-up folks a lumber-room ? Lumber, indeed ! 
what Virtu double-locks in cabinets is the real lumber to 
the boy 1 Lumber, reader ! to thee it was a treasury ! 
Now this cupboard had been the lumber-room in Caleb’s 
household. In an instant the whole troop had thrown 
themselves on the motley contents. Stray joints of clumsy 
fishing-rods ; artificial baits ; a pair of worn-out top- 
boots, in which one of the urchins, whooping and shout- 
ing, buried himself up to the middle ; moth-eaten, stained, 
and ragged, the collegian’s gown — relic of the dead 
man’s palmy time ; a bag of carpenter’s tools, chiefly 
broken ; a cricket-bat ; an odd boxing-glove ; a fencing- 
foil, snapped in the middle ; and, more than all, some 
half-finished attempts at rude toys: a boat, a cart, a 
doll’s house, in which the good-natured Caleb had busied 
himself for the younger ones of that family in which he 
had found the fatal ideal of his trite life. One by one 
were these lugged forth from their dusty slumber — pro- 
fane hands struggling for the first right of appropriation. 
And now, revealed against the wall, glared upon the 
startled violators of the sanctuary, with glassy eyes and 
horrent visage, a grim monster. They huddled back one 
upon the other, pale and breathless, till the eldest, seeing 


40 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


that the creature moved not, took heart, approached on 
tip-toe — twice receded, and twice again advanced, and 
finally drew out, daubed, painted and tricked forth in the 
semblance of a griffin, a gigantic Kite ! 

The children, alas ! were not old and wise enough tc 
know all the dormant value of that imprisoned aeronaut, 
which had cost Caleb many a dull evening’s labor — the 
intended gift to the false one’s favorite brother. But 
they guessed that it was a thing or spirit appertaining 
of right to them ; and they resolved, after mature consul- 
tation, to impart the secret of their discovery to an old 
wooden-legged villager, who had served in the army, who 
was the idol of all the children of the place, and who, 
they firmly believed, knew everything under the sun, ex- 
cept the mystical arts of reading and writing. Accord- 
ingly, having seen that the coast was clear — for they 
considered their parents (as the children of the hard- 
working often do) the natural foes to amusement — they 
carried the monster into an old out-house, and ran to the 
veteran to beg him to come up slily and inspect its 
properties. 

Three months after this memorable event, arrived the 
new pastor — a slim, prim, orderly, and starch young 
man, framed by nature and trained by practice to bear a 
great deal of solitude and starving. Two loving couples 
had waited to be married till his Reverence should arrive. 
The ceremony performed, where was the registry-book ? 
The vestry was searched — the churchwardens interroga- 
ted ; the gay clerk who, on the demise of his deaf prede- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


41 


cessor, had come into office a little before Caleb’s last 
illness, had a dim recollection of having taken the registry 
np to Mr. Price at the time the vestry-room was white- 
washed. The house was searched — the cupboard, the 
mysterious cupboard, was explored. “ Here it is, sir ! ” 
cried the clerk ; and he pounced upon a pale parchment 
volume. The thin clergyman opened it, and recoded in 
dismay — more than three-fourths of the leaves had been 
torn out. 

“ It is the moths, sir,” said the gardener’s wife, who 
had not yet removed from the house. 

The clergyman looked round ; one of the children was 
trembling. ' “ What have you done to this book, little 
one ! ” 

“ That book ? — the — hi ! — hi ! ” 

“ Speak the truth, and you shan’t be punished.” 

“ I did not know it was any harm — hi ! — hi 1 ” 

“Well, and ” 

“And old Ben helped us.” 

“Well?” 

“And — and — and — hi ! — hi ! — The tail of the kite, 
sir ! ” 

“ Where is the kite ? ” 

Alas ! the kite and its tail were long ago gone to that 
undiscovered limbo, where all things lost, brok 
vanished, and destroyed; things that lose themselves — . 
for servants are too honest to steal ; things that break 
themselves — for servants are too careful to break ; find 
an everlasting and impenetrable refuge. 

4 * 


12 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ It does not signify a pin’s head,” said the clerk ; 
“ the parish must find a new ’un 1 ” 

“ It is no fault of mine,” said the Pastor. “Are my 
chops ready ? ” 


CHAPTER II. 

“And soothed with idle dreams the frowning fate.” — Crabbe. 

“ Why does not my father come back ? what a time he 
has been away ! ” 

“ My dear Philip, business detains him : but he will be 
here in a few days — perhaps, to-day!” 

“I should like him to see how much I am improved.” 

“ Improved in what, Philip ? ” said the mother, with a 
smile. “ Hot Latin, I am sure ; for I have not seen you 
open a book since you insisted on poor Todd’s dismissal.” 

“ Todd ! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke through 
his nose : what could he know of Latin ? ” 

“More than you ever will, I fear, unless ” and 

here there was a certain hesitation in the mother’s voice, 
“ unless your father consents to your going to school.” 

“Well, I should like to go to Eton !— That’s the only 
school for a gentleman. I’ve heard my father say so.” 

“Philip, you are too proud.” 

“Proud! — you often call me proud; but, then, you 
kiss me when you do so. Kiss me now, mother.” 

The lady drew her son to her breast, put aside the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


4 $ 


clustering hair from his forehead, and kissed him ; but the 
kiss was sad, and a moment after she pushed him away 
gently, and muttered, unconscious that she was over* 
heard, — 

“ If, after all, my devotion to the father should wrong 
the children ! ” 

The boy started, and a cloud passed over his brow ; 
but he said nothing. A light step entered the room 
through the French casements that opened on the lawn, 
and the mother turned to her youngest-born, and her eye 
brightened. 

“ Mamma ! mamma ! here is a letter for you. I 
snatched it from John: it is papa’s hand- writing.” 

The lady uttered a joyous exclamation, and seized the 
letter. The younger child nestled himself on a stool at 
her feet, looking up while she read it ; the elder stood 
apart, leaning on his gun, and with something of thought, 
even of gloom, upon his countenance. 

There was a strong contrast in the two boys. The 
elder, who was about fifteen, seemed older than he was, 
not only from his height, but from the darkness of his 
complexion, and a certain proud, nay imperious, expres- 
sion upon features that, without having the soft and 
fluent graces of childhood, were yet regular and striking. 
His dark-green shooting-dress, with the belt and pouch, 
the cap, with its gold tassel set upon his luxuriant curls, 
which had the purple gloss of the raven’s plume, blended 
perhaps something prematurely manly in his own tastes, 
with the love of the fantastic and the picturesque which 


44 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


bespeaks the presiding genius of the proud mother. The 
younger son had scarcely told his ninth year ; and the 
soft, auburn ringlets, descending half-way down the 
shoulders ; the rich and delicate bloom that exhibits at 
once the hardy health and the gentle fostering ; the large, 
deep-blue eyes ; the flexile and almost effeminate contour 
of the harmonious features ; altogether made such an ideal 
of child-like beauty as Lawrence had loved to paint or 
Chantrey model. And the daintiest cares of a mother, 
who, as yet, has her darling all to herself — her toy, her 
plaything — were visible in the large falling collar of finest 
cambric, and the blue velvet dress with its filigree buttons 
and embroidered sash. 

Both the boys had about them the air of those whom 
Fate ushers blandly into life — the air of wealth, and 
birth, and luxury, spoiled and pampered as if earth had 
no thorn for their feet, and, heaven not a wind to visit 
their young cheeks too roughly. The motlflr had been 
extremely handsome ; and though the first bloom of youth 
was now gone, she had still the beauty that might capti- 
vate new love — an easier task than to retain the old. 
Both her sons, though differing from each other, resembled 
her : she had the features of the younger ; and probably 
any one who had seen her in her own earlier youth, would 
have recognized in that child’s gay yet gentle countenance, 
the mirror of the mother when a girl. Now, however, 
especially when silent or thoughtful, the expression of her 
face was rather that of the elder boy ; — the cheek, once 
bo rosy, was now pale, though clear, with something which 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


45 


time had given, of pride and thought, in the curved lip 
aud the high forehead. One who could have looked on 
her in her more lonely hours, might have seen that the 
pride had known shame, and the thought was the shadow 
of the passions of fear and sorrow. 

But now as she read those hasty, brief, but well-remem- 
bered characters — read as one whose heart was in heT 
eyes— joy and triumph alone were visible in that eloquent 
countenance. Her eyes flashed, her breast heaved ; and 
at length, clasping the letter to her lips, she kissed it again 
and again with passionate transport. Then, as her eyes 
met the dark, enquiring, earnest gaze of her eldest-born, 
she flung her arms round him, and wept vehemently. 

“ What is the matter, mamma, dear mamma ? ” said the 
youngest, pushing himself between Philip and his mother. 

“ Your father is coming back, this day — this very hour ; 

— and you — you — child — you Philip ” Here sobs 

broke in d^on her words, and left her speechless. 

The letter that had produced this effect ran as fol- 
lows : — 

“ To Mrs. Morton, Fernside Cottage. 

“Dearest Kate, — My last letter prepared you foi 
Ihe news I have now to relate — my poor uncle is no more 
Though I had seen so little of him, especially of late years, 
his death sensibly affected me ; but I have at least the 
consolation of thinking, that there is nothing now to pre- 
vent my doing justice to you. I am the sole heir to his 
fortune — I have it in my power, dearest Kate, to offer 


46 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


you a tardy recompense for all you have put up with for 
my sake ; — a sacred testimony to your long forbearance, 
your unreproachful love, your wrongs, and your devotion. 
Our children, too — my noble Philip ! — kiss them, Kate 
— kiss them for me a thousand times. 

“I write in great haste — the burial is just over, and 
my letter will only serve to announce my return. My 
darling Catherine, I shall be with you almost as scon as 
these lines meet your eyes — those dear eyes, that, for All 
the tears they have shed for my faults and follies, have 
never looked the less kind. 

“Yours, ever as ever, 

“ Philip Beaufort.” 

This letter has told its tale, and little remains to explain. 
Philip Beaufort was one of those men of whom there are 
many in his peculiar class of society — easy, thoughtless, 
good-humored, generous, with feelings infinitely better 
than his principles. * 

Inheriting himself but a moderate fortune, which was 
three parts in the hands of the Jews before he was twenty- 
five, he had the most brilliant expectations from his uncle ; 
an old bachelor, who, from a courtier, had turned a mis- 
anthrope — cold — shrewd — penetrating — worldly — sar- 
castic — and imperious ; and from this relation he received, 
meanwhile, a handsome, and, indeed, a munificent allow- 
ance. About sixteen years before the date at which this 
narrative opens, Philip Beaufort had “run off,” as the 
Baying is, with Catherine Morton, then little more than a 
child — a motherless child — educated- at a boarding-school 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


47 


to notions and desires far beyond her station ; for she was 
the daughter of a provincial tradesman. And Philip 
Beaufort, in the prime of life, was possessed of most of 
the qualities that dazzle the eyes, and many of the arts 
that betray the affections. It was suspected by some that 
they were privately married : if so, the secret had been 
closely kept, and baffled all the enquiries of the stern old 
uncle. Still there was much, not only in the manner, at 
once modest and dignified, but in the character of Cathe- 
rine, which was proud and high-spirited, to give color to 
the suspicion. Beaufort, a man naturally careless of forms, 
paid her a marked and punctilious respect ; and his at- 
tachment was evidently one, not only of passion, but of 
confidence and esteem. Time developed in her mental 
qualities far superior to those of Beaufort, and for these 
she had ample leisure of cultivation. To the influence 
derived from her mind and person she added that of a 
frank, affectionate, and winning disposition ; their children 
cemented the bond between them. Mr. Beaufort was 
passionately attached to field-sports. He lived the greater 
part of the year with Catherine, at the beautiful cottage 
to which he had built hunting stables that were the ad- 
miration of the county ; and, though the cottage was near 
London, the pleasures of the metropolis seldom allured 
him for more than a few days — generally but a few hours 
— at a time ; and he always hurried back with renewed 
relish to what he considered his home. 

Whatever the connexion between Catherine and him- 
self (ana of the true nature of that connexion, the Intro 


*8 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


ductory Chapter has made the reader more enlightened 
than the world), her influence had, at least, weaned from 
all excesses, and many follies, a man who, before he knew 
her had seemed likely, from the extreme joviality and 
carelessness of his nature, and a very imperfect education, 
to contract whatever vices were most in fashion as pre- 
servatives against ennui. And if their union had been 
openly hallowed by the church, Philip Beaufort had been 
universally esteemed the model of a tender husband and 
a fond father Ever, as he became more and more ac- 
quainted with Catherine’s natural good qualities, and more 
and more attached to his home, had Mr. Beaufort, with 
the generosity of true affection, desired to remove from 
her the pain of an equivocal condition by a public mar- 
riage. But Mr. Beanfort, though generous, was not free 
from the worldliness which had met him every where, 
amidst the society in which his youth had been spent. 
His uncle, the head of one of those families which yearly 
vanish from the commonalty into the peerage, but which 
once formed a distinguished peculiarity in the aristocracy 
of England — families of ancient birth, immense posses- 
sions, at once noble and untitled — held his estates by no 
other tenure than his own caprice. Though he professed 
to like Philip, yet he saw but little of him. When the 
news of the illicit connexion his nephew was reported to 
have formed reached him, he at first resolved to break it 
off ; but observing that Philip no longer gambled, nor run 
in debt, and had retired from the turf to the safer and 
more economical pastimes of the field, he contented him- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


49 

self with enquiries which satisfied him that Philip was not 
married ; and perhaps he thought it, on the whole, more 
prudent to wink at an error that was not attended by the 
bills which had heretofore characterized the human in- 
firmities of his reckless nephew. He took care, ho wever, 
incidentally, and in reference to some scandal of the day, 
to pronounce his opinion, not upon the fault, but upon 
the only mode of repairing it. 

“ If ever,” said he, and he looked grimly at Philip 
while he spoke, “ a gentleman were to disgrace his ances- 
try by introducing into his family one whom his own sister 
could not receive at her house, why, he ought to sink to 
her level, and wealth would but make his disgrace the 
more notorious. If I had an only son, and that son were 
booby enough to do anything so discreditable as to marry 
beneath him, I would rather have my footman for my 
successor. You understand, Phil?” 

Philip did understand, and looked round at the noble 
house and the stately park, and his generosity was not 
equal to the trial. Catherine — so great was her power 
over him — might, perhaps, have easily triumphed over 
his more selfish calculations ; but her love was too delicate 
ever to breathe, of itself, the hope that lay deepest at her 
heart. And her childien ! — ah! for them she pined, 
but for them she also hoped. Before them was a long 
future, and she had all confidence in Philip. Of late, 
there had been considerable doubts how far the elder 
Beaufort would realize the expectations in which his 
I— .5 


D 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


50 

nephew had been reared. Philip’s younger brother had 
been much with the old gentleman, and appeared to be in 
high favor : this brother- was a man in every respect the 
opposite to Philip — sober, supple, decorous, ambitious, 
with a face of smiles and a heart of ice. 

But the old gentleman was taken dangerously ill, and 
Philip was summoned to his bed of death. Robert, the 
younger brother, was there also, with his wife (for he had 
married prudently) and his children — (he had two, a son 
and a daughter). Not a, word did the uncle say as to the 
disposition of his property till an hour before he died. 
And then, turning in his bed, he looked first at one nephew, 
then at the other, and faltered out, — 

“Philip, you are a scape-grace, but a gentleman! 

> 

Robert, you are a careful, sober, plausible man ; and it 
is a great pity you were not in business ; you would have 
made a fortune! — you won’t inherit one, though you 
think it ; I have marked you, sir. Philip, beware of your 
brother. Now, let me see the parson.” 

The old man died ; the will was read ; and Philip suc- 
ceeded to a rental of 20,000Z. a-year ; Robert, to a dia- 
mond ring, a gold repeater, 5000Z., and a curious collec- 
tion of bottled snakes. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


51 


CHAPTER III. 

“Stay, delightful Dream; 

Let him within his pleasant garden walk; 

Give him her arm — of blessing let them talk.” — Crabbe. 

“ There, Robert, there I now you can see the new 
stables. By Jove, they are the corapletest thing in the 
three kingdoms 1 ” 

“ Quite a pile ! But is that the house ? Tou lodge 
your horses more magnificently than yourself.” 

“But is it not a beautiful cottage? — to be sure, it 
owes everything to Catherine’s taste. Dear Catherine ! ” 

Mr. Robert Beaufort, for this colloquy took place be- 
tween the brothers, as their britska rapidly descended the 
hill, at the foot of which lay Fernside Cottage and its 
miniature demesnes — Mr. Robert Beaufort pulled his 
travelling-cap over his brows, and his countenance fell, 
whether at the name of Catherine, or the tone in which 
the name was uttered ; and there was a pause, broken by 
a third occupant of the britska, a youth of about seven- 
teen, who sat opposite the brothers. 

“ And who are those boys on the lawn, uncle ? ” 

“ Who are those boys ? ” It was a simple question, 
but it grated on the ear of Mr. Robert Beaufort — it 
struck discord at his heart. “ Who were those boys ? ” 
as they ran across the sward, eager to welcome their 


52 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


father home ; the westering sun shining full in their joy- 
ous faces — their young forms so lithe and so graceful — 
their merry laughter ringing in the still air. “ Those 
boys,” thought Mr. Robert Beaufort, “the sons of shame, 
rob mine of his inheritance.” The elder brother turned 
round at his nephew’s question, and saw the expression 
on Robert’s face. He bit his lip, and answered, gravely — 

“ Arthur, they are my children.” 

“I did not know you were married,” replied Arthur, 
bending forward to take a better view of his cousins. 

Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and Philip’s brow 
grew crimson. 

The carriage stopped at the little lodge ; Philip opened 
the door, and jumped to the ground ; the brother and his 
son followed. A moment more, k and Philip was locked 
in Catherine’s arms, her tears falling fast upon his breast ; 
his children plucking at his coat; and the younger one 
crying, in his shrill impatient treble, “ Papa ! papa ! you 
don’t see Sidney, papa ! ” 

Mr. Robert Beaufort placed his hand on his son’s 
shoulder, and arrested his steps, as they contemplated 
the group before them. 

“ Arthur,” said he, in a hollow whisper, “ those children 
are our disgrace and your supplanters ; they are bastards 1 
bastards ! and they are to be his heirs ! ” 

Arthur made no answer, but the smile with which he 
had hitherto gazed, on his new relations vanished. 

“Kate,” said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned from Mrs. 
Morton, and lifted his youngest-born in his arms, “ this is 
mv brother and his son : they are welcome, are they not ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


53 


Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with 
stiff affability, to Mrs. Morton, muttering something 
equally complimentary and inaudible. 

The party proceeded towards the house. Philip and 
Arthur brought up the rear. 

“ Do you shoot ? ” asked Arthur, observing the gun in 
his cousin’s hand. 

“Yes. I hope this season to bag as many head as my 
father : he is a famous shot. But this is only a single 
barrel, and an old-fashioned sort of detonator. My 
father must get me one of the new guns. I can’t afford 
it myself.” 

“ I should think not,” said Arthur, smiling. 

“ Oh, as to that,” resumed Philip, quickly, and with a 
heightened color, “ I could have managed it very well if 
I had not given thirty guineas for a brace of pointers the 
other day : they are the best dogs you ever saw.” 

“ Thirty guineas ! ” echoed Arthur, looking with naive 
surprise at the speaker ; “ why, how old are you ? ” 

“Just fifteen last birth-day. Holla, John! John 
Green !” cried the young gentleman in an imperious voice, 
to one of the gardeners, who was crossing the lawn, “ see 
that the nets are taken down to the lake to-morrow, and 
that my tent is pitched properly, by the lime-trees, by 
nine o’clock. I hope you will understand me this time : 
Heaven knows you take a deal of telling before you un- 
derstand anything ! ” 

“ Yes, Mr. Philip,” said the man, bowing obsequi- 
ously ; and then muttered, as he went off, “ Drat the 
5 * 


54 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


nat’rel ! he speaks to a poor man as if he warn’t flesh 
and blood.” 

“ Does your father keep hunters ? ” asked Philip. 

“ No.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Perhaps one reason may be, that he is not rich 
enough.” 

“ Oh ! that’s a pity. Never mind, we’ll mount you, 
whenever you like to pay us a visit.” 

Young Arthur drew himself up, and his air, naturally 
frank and gentle, became haughty and reserved. Philip 
gazed on him, and felt offended ; he scarce knew why, 
but from that moment he conceived a dislike to his cousin. 


CHAPTER IY. 

“ For a man is helpless and vain, of a condition so exposed to 
calamity that, a raisin is able to kill him : any trooper out of the 
Egyptian army — a fly can do it, when it goes on God : s errand.” — 
Jeremy Taylor, On the Deceitfulness of the Heart. 

The two brothers sat at their wine after dinner. Robert 
sipped claret, the sturdy Philip quaffed his more generous 
port. Catherine and the boys might be seen at a little 
distance, and by the light of a soft August moon, among 
the shrubs and bosquets of the lawn. 

Philip Beaufort was about five-and-forty, tall, robust, 
nay, of great strength of frame and limb ; with a counte- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


55 


nance extremely winning, not only from the comeliness of 
its features, but its frankness, manliness, and good-nature. 
His was the bronzed, rich complexion, the inclination 
towards embonpoint , the athletic girth of chest, which 
denote redundant health, and mirthful temper, and san- 
guine blood. Robert, who had lived the life of cities, 
was a year younger than his brother ; nearly as tall, but 
pale, meagre, stooping, and with a care-worn, anxious, 
hungry look, which made the smile that hung upon his 
lips seem hollow and artificial. His dress, though plain, 
was neat and studied ; his manner, bland and plausible ; 
his voice, sweet and low : there was that about him which, 
if it did not win liking, tended to excite respect — a cer- 
tain decorum, a nameless propriety of appearance and 
bearing, that approached a little to formality : his every 
movement, slow and measured, was that of one who 
paced in the circle that fences round the habits and usages 
of the world. 

“ Yes,” said Philip, “ I had always decided to take this 
step, whenever my poor uncle’s death should allow me to 
do so. You have seen Catherine, but you do not know 
half her good qualities : she would grace any station : 
and, besides, she nursed me so carefully last year, when I 
broke my collar-bone in that cursed steeple-chase. Egad, 
I am getting too heavy, and growing too old, for such 
school-boy pranks.” 

“ I have no doubt of Mrs. Morton’s excellence, and I 
honor your motives ; still, when you talk of her gracing 
any station, you must not forget, my dear brother, tliai 


56 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

she will be no more received as Mrs. Beaufort than she is 
now as Mrs. Morton. ” 

“ But I tell you, Robert, that I am really married to 
her already ; that she would never have left her home 
but on that condition ; that we were married the very day 
we met after her flight.” 

Robert’s thin lips broke into a slight sneer of incre- 
dulity. 

“ My dear brother, you do right to say this — any man 
in your situation would say the same. But I know that 
my uncle took every pains to ascertain if the report of a 
private marriage were true.” 

“And you helped him in the search. Eh, Bob ?” 

Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on. 

“ Ha, ha ! to be sure you did ; you knew that such a 
discovery would have done for me in the old gentleman’s 
good opinion. But I blinded you both, ha, ha ! The 
fact is, that we were married with the greatest privacy ; 
that even now, I own, it would be difficult for Catherine 
herself to establish the fact, unless I wished it. I am 
ashamed to think that I have never even told her where 
I keep the main proof of the marriage. I induced one 
witness to leave the country, the other must be long since 
dead : my poor friend, too, who officiated, is no more. 
Even the register, Bob, the register itself, has been de- 
stroyed : and yet, notwithstanding, I will prove the cere- 
mony, and clear up poor Catherine’s fame ; for I have the 
attested copy of the register safe and sound. Catherine 
not married ! why, look at her, man 1 ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


51 


Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window for a mo- 
ment, but his countenance was still that of one uncon 
vinced. 

“Well, brother,” said he, dipping his fingers in the 
water-glass, “it is not for me to contradict you. It is a 
very curious tale — parson dead — witnesses missing. But 
still, as I said before, if you are resolved on a public mar- 
riage, you are wise to insist that there has been a pre- 
vious private one. Yet, believe me, Philip,” continued 

Robert, with solemn earnestness, “ the world ” 

“ D the world ! What do I care for the world ! 

We don’t want to go to routs and balls, and give din- 
ners to fine people. I shall live much the same as I 
have always done ; only, I shall now keep the hounds — 
they are very indifferently kept at present — and have i 
yacht ; and engage the best masters for the boys. Phil 
wants to go to Eton, but I know what Eton is : poor 
fellow ! his feelings might be hurt there, if others are as 
sceptical as yourself. I suppose my old friends will not 
be less civil, now I have 20,000/. a-year. And as for 
the society of women, between you and me, I don’t care 
a rush for any woman but Catherine : poor Katty ! ” 
“Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs: 
you don’t misinterpret my motives?” 

“ My dear Bob, no. I am quite sensible how kind it 
is in you — a man of your starch habits and strict views, 
coming here to pay a mark of respect to Kate — (Mr. 
Robert turned uneasily in his chair) — even before you 
knew of the private marriage, and I am sure I don’t 
5 * 


58 


SIGHT AND MORNING. 


blame you, for never having done it before. You did 
quite right to try your chance with my uncle. ” 

Mr. Robert turned in his chair again, still more un- 
easily, and cleared his voice as if to speak. But Philip 
tossed oft his wine, and proceeded, without heeding his 
brother, — 

“And though the poor old man does not seem to have 
liked you the better for consulting his scruples, yet we 
must make up for the partiality of his will. ♦ Let me see 
— what, with your wife’s fortune, you muster 2000 1. a- 
year ? ” 

“ Only 1500Z., Philip, and Arthur’s education is grow- 
ing expensive. Next year he goes to college. He is 

certainly very clever, and I have great hopes ” 

“That he will do honor to us all — so have I. He is 
a noble young fellow ; and I think my Philip may find a 
great deal to learn from him, — Phil is a sad, idle dog ; 
but with a devil of a spirit, and sharp as a needle. I 
wish you could see him ride. Well, to return to Arthur. 
Don’t trouble yourself about his education — that shall 
be my care. He shall go to Christ Church — a gentle- 
man-commoner, of course — and when he’s of age, we’ll 
get him into Parliament. Now for yourself, Bob. I 
shall sell the town-house in Berkeley Square, and what- 
ever it brings you shall have. Besides that, I ’ll add 
1500Z. a-year to your 1500Z. — so that’s said and done. 
Pshaw ! brothers should be brothers. — Let’s come out 
and play with the boys 1 ” 

The two Beauforts stepped through tne open casement 
into the lawn. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


59 


“You look pale, Bob — all you London fellows do. 
As for me, I feel as strong as a horse.; much better than 
when I was one of your gay dogs straying loose about 
the town ! ’Gad, I have never had a moment’s ill health, 
except from a fall now and then. I feel as if I should 
live for ever, and that’s the reason why I could never 
make a will.” 

“ Have you never, then, made your will ! ” 

“ Never as yet Faith, till now, I had little enough 
to leave. But now that all this great Beaufort property 
is at my own disposal, I must think of Kate’s jointure. 
By Jove ! now I speak of it, I will ride to ***** to- 
morrow, and consult the lawyer there both about the 
will and the marriage. You will stay for the wedding !” 

“Why, I must go into shire to-morrow evening, 

to place Arthur with his tutor. But I’ll return for the 
wedding, if you particularly wish it : only Mrs. Beaufort 

is a woman of very strict ” 

“ I do particularly wish it,” interrupted Philip, gravely; 
“for I desire, for Catherine’s sake, that you, my sole sur- 
viving relation, may not seem to withhold your counte- 
nance from an act of justice to her. And as for your 
wife, I fancy 1500Z. a-year would reconcile her to my 
marrying out of the Penitentiary.” 

Mr. Robert bowed his head, coughed huskily, and said, 
“I appreciate your generous affection, Philip.” 

The next morning, while the elder parties were still 
over the breakfast-table, the young people were in the 
grounds : it was a lovely day, one of the last of the 


60 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


luxuriant August — and Arthur, as he looked round, 
thought he had never seen a more beautiful place. It 
was, indeed, just the spot to captivate a youthful and 
susceptible fancy. The village of Fernside, though in 
one of the counties adjoining Middlesex, and as near to 
London as the owner’s passionate pursuits of the field 
would permit, was yet as rural and sequestered as if an 
hundred miles distant from the smoke of the huge city. 
Though the dwelling was called a cottage, Philip had 
enlarged the original modest building into a villa of some 
pretensions. On either side a graceful and well-pro- 
portioned portico, stretched verandahs, covered with ros£s 
and clematis ; to the right extended a range of costly 
conservatories, terminating in vistas of trellis-work which 
formed those elegant allies called rosaries, and served to 
screen the more useful gardens from view. The lawn 
smooth and even, was studded with American plants and 
shrubs in flower, and bounded on one side by a small 
lake, on the opposite bank of which limes and cedars 
threw their shadows over the clear waves. On the other 
side a light fence separated the grounds from a large 
paddock, in which three or four hunters grazed in indo- 
lent enjoyment. It was one of those cottages which be- 
speak the ease and luxury not often found in more osten- 
tatious mansions — an abode which, at sixteen, the visitor 
contemplates with vague notions of poetry and love — 
which, at forty, he might think dull and d d expen- 

sive — which, at sixty, he would pronounce to be damp in 
winter, and full * of ear- wigs in the summer. Master 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


61 


Philip was leaning on his gun ; Master Sidney was 
chasing a peacock butterfly ; Arthur was silently gazing 
on the shining lake and the still foliage that drooped 
over its surface. In the countenance of this young man 
there was something that excited a certain interest. He 
was less handsome than Philip, but the expression of his 
face was more prepossessing, There was something of 
pride in the forehead ; but of good-nature,, not unmixed 
with irresolution and weakness, in the curves of the 
mouth. He was more delicate of frame than Philip ; and 
the color of his complexion was not that of a robust con- 
stitution. His movements were graceful and self-pos- 
sessed, and he had his father’s sweetness of voice. 

“ This is really beautiful 1 — I envy you, cousin Philip.” 

“ Has not your father got a country-house ? ” 

“No; we live either in London or at some hot, 
crowded, watering-place.” 

“ Yes ; this is very nice during the shooting and hunt- 
ing season. But my old nurse says we shall have a much 
finer place now. I liked this very well till I saw Lord 
Belville’s place. But it is very unpleasant not to have the 
finest house in the county : aut Gcesar aut nullus — that’s 
my motto. Ah 1 do you see that swallow ? I’ll bet you 
a guinea I hit it.” 

“No, poor thing! don’t hurt it.” But ere the re- 
monstrance was uttered, the bird lay quivering on the 
ground. 

“ It is just September, and one must keep one’s hand 
in,” said Philip, as he reloaded his gun. 

i — 6 




62 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


To Arthur, this action seemed a wanton cruelty ; it was 
rather the wanton recklessness which belongs to a wild 
boy accustomed to gratify the impulse of the moment — 
the recklessness which is not cruelty in the boy, but which 
prosperity may pamper into cruelty in the man. And 
scarce had he reloaded his gun before the neigh of a 
young colt came from the neighboring paddock, and 
Philip bounded to the fence. “ He calls me, poor fellow ; 
you shall see him feed from my hand. Run in for a piece 
of bread — a large piece, Sidney.” The boy and the 
animal seemed to understand each other. “I see you 
don’t like horses,” he said to Arthur. ^‘As for me, I love 
dogs, horses — every dumb creature.” 

“ Except swallows ! ” said Arthur, with a half smile, 
and a little surprised at the inconsistency of the boast. 

“Oh! that is sport, — all fair: it is not to hurt the 
swallow — it is to obtain skill,” said Philip, coloring; 
and then, as if not quite easy with his own definition, he 
turned away abruptly. 

“This is dull work — suppose we fish. By Jove ! (he 
had caught his father’s expletive) that blockhead has put 
the tent on the wrong side of the lake, after all. Holla, 
you, sir ! ” and the unhappy gardener looked up from his 
flower-beds ; “ what ails you ? I have a great mind to 
tell my father of you — you grow stupider every day. I 
told ycu to put the tent under the lime-trees.” 

“We could not manage it, sir; the boughs were in the 
f?ay.” 

“And why did not you cut the boughs, blockhead ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


63 


“I did not dare do so, sir, without master’s orders,” 
said the man, doggedly. 

“ My orders are sufficient, I should think ; so none of 
your impertinence,” cried Philip, with a raised color ; and 
lifting his hand, in which he held his ramrod, he shook it 
menacingly over the gardener’s head, — “ I’ve a great 
mind to ” 

“ What’s the matter, Philip ? ” cried the good-humored 
voice of his father. — “ Fie ! ” 

“This fellow does not mind what I say, sir.” 

“I did not like to cut the boughs of the lime-trees 
without your orders, sir,” said the gardener. 

“No, it would be a pity to cut them. You should 
consult me there, Master Philip ; ” and the father shook 
him by the collar with a good-natured, and affectionate, 
but rough sort of caress. 

“ Be quiet, father ! ” said the boy, petulantly and 
proudly ; “or,” he added, in a lower voice, but one which 
showed emotion, “ my cousin may think you mean less 
kindly than you always do, sir.” 

The father was touched : — “Go and cut the lime- 
boughs, John ; and always do as Mr. Philip tells you.” 

The mother was behind, and she sighed audibly. — 
“Ah ! dearest, I fear you will spoil him.” 

“ Is he not your son ? and do we not owe him the more 
respect for having hitherto allowed others to — ” 

He stopped, and the mother could say no more. And 
thus it was, that this boy of powerful character and strong 
passions had, from motives the most amiable, been 
pampered from the darling into the despot. 


64 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“And now, Kate, I will, as I told you last night, ride 
over to * * * * * and fix the earliest day for our public 
marriage : I will ask the lawyer to dine here, to talk 
about the proper steps for proving the private one.” 

“ Will that be difficult ? ” asked Catherine, with natural 
anxiety. 

“ No, — for if you remember, I had the precaution to 
get an examined copy of the register ; otherwise, I own 
to you, I should have been alarmed. I don’t know what 
has become of Smith. I heard some time since from his 
father that he had left the colony ; and (I never told you 
before — it would have made you uneasy) once, a few 
years ago, when my uncle again got it into his head that 
we might be married, I was afraid poor Caleb’s successor 

might, by chance, betray us. So I went over to A 

myself, being near it when I was staying with Lord 

C , in order to see how far it might be necessary to 

secure the parson ; and, only think ! I found an accident 
had happened to the register — so, as the clergyman could 
know nothing, I kept my own counsel. How lucky I have 
the copy ! No doubt the lawyer will set all to rights ; 
and, while I am making settlements, I may as well make 
my will. I have plenty for both boys, but the dark one 
must be the heir. Does he not look born to be the eldest 
son ? ” 

“Ah, Philip 1 ” 

“ Pshaw ! one don’t die the sooner for making a will. 
Have I the air of a man in a consumption ! ” — and the 
sturdy sportsman glanced complacently at the strength 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


66 


and symmetry of his manly limbs. “ Come, Phil, let’s go 
to the stables. Now, Robert, I will show you what is 
better worth seeing than those miserable flower-beds.” 

So saying, Mr. Beaufort led the way to the court-yard 
at the back of the cottage. Catherine and Sidney re- 
mained on the lawn ; the rest followed the host. The 
grooms, of whom Beaufort was the idol, hastened to show 
how well the horses had thriven in his absence. 

“ Do see how Brown Bess has come on, sir ? but, to be 
sure, Master Philip keeps her in exercise. Ah, sir, he 
will be as good a rider as your honor, one of these days.” 

“ He ought to be a better, Tom ; for I think he’ll never 
have my weight to carry. Well, saddle Brown Bess for 
Mr. Philip. What horse shall I take ? — Ah ! here’s my 
old friend, Puppet ! ” 

“ I don’t know what’s come to Puppet, sir ; he’s off his 
feed, and turned sulky. I tried him over the bar yes- 
terday; but he was quite restive like.” 

“ The devil he was ! So, so, old boy, you shall go over 
the six-barred gate to-day, or we’ll know why.” And 
Mr. Beaufort patted the sleek neck of his favorite hunter. 
“Put the saddle on him, Tom.” 

“ Yes, your honor. I sometimes think he is hurt in the 
loins somehow — he don’t take to his leaps kindly, and 
he always tries to bite when we bridles him. — Be quiet, 
sir 1 ” 

“ Only his airs,” said Philip. “ I did not know this, 
or I would have taken him over the gate. Why did not 
you tell me, Tom ? ” 

6 * 


66 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


u Loid love you, sir ! because you have such a spurret ; 

' and if anything had come to you ” 

“ Quite right : you are not weight enough for Puppet, 
my boy ; and he never did like any one to back him but 
myself. What say you, brother, will you ride with us ? ” 
“ No, I must go to ***** to-day with Arthur. I have 
engaged the post-horses at two o’clock ; but I shall be 
with you to-morrow or the day after. You see his tutor 
expects him ; and as he is backward in his mathematics, 
he has no time to lose.” 

“ Well, then, good-bye, nephew ! ” and Beaufort slipped 
a pocket-book into the boy’s hand. “ Tush ! whenever 
you want money, don’t trouble your father — write to me 
— we shall be always glad to see you ; and you must teach 
Philip to like his book a little better — eh, Phil ? ” 

“No, father; I shall be rich enough to do without 
books,” said Philip, rather coarsely; but then observing 
the heightened color of his cousin, he went up to him, 
and with a generous impulse, said, “Arthur, you admired 
this gun; pray accept it. Nay, don’t be shy — I can 
have as many as I like for the asking : you’re not so well 
off, you know.” 

The intention was kind, but the manner was so patron- 
ising that Arthur felt offended. He put back the gun, 
and said, drily, “I shall have no occasion for the gun, 
thank you.” 

If Arthur was offended by the offer, Philip was much 
more offended by the refusal. “As you like; I hate 
priie,” said he ; and he gave the gun to the groom as he 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


67 


vaulted into his saddle, with the lightness of a young 
Mercury. “ Come, father ! ” 

Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favorite hunter — a 
large, powerful horse well known for its prowess in the 
field. The rider trotted him once or twice through the 
spacious yard. 

“ Nonsense, Tom : no more hurt in the loins than I am. 
Open that gate ; we will go across the paddock, and take 
the gate yonder — the old six-bar — eh, Phil?” 

“Capital! — to be sure! ” 

The gate was opened — the grooms stood watchful to 
see the leap, and a kindred curiosity arrested Robert 
Beaufort and his son. 

How well they looked ! those two horsemen ; the ease, 
lightness, spirit of the one, with the fine-limbed and fiery 
steed that literally “bounded beneath him as a barb” — 
— seemingly as gay, as ardent, and as haughty as the 
boy rider. And the manly, and almost herculean, form 
of the elder Beaufort, which, from the buoyancy of its 
movements, and the supple grace that belongs to the 
perfect mastership of any athletic art, possessed an ele- 
gance, and dignity, especially on horseback, which rarely 
accompanies proportions equally sturdy and robust. 
There was indeed something knightly and chivalrous in 
the bearing of the elder Beaufort — in his handsome aqui- 
line features, the erectness of his mien, the very waive of 
his hand, as he spurred from the yard. 

“ What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is ! ” said Arthur, 
with involuntary admiration. 


68 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

“Ay, an excellent life — amazingly strong 1 ” returned 
the pale father, with a slight sigh. 

“ Philip,” said Mr. Beaufort, as they cantered across 
the paddock, “ I think the gate is too much for you. I 
will just take Puppet over, and then we will open it for 
you.” 

“ Pooh, my dear father ! you don’t know bow J,’m im- 
proved 1 ” And slackening the rein, and touching the 
side of his horse, the young rider darted forward and 
cleared the gate, which was of no common height, with 
an ease that extorted a loud bravo from the proud father. 

“Now, Puppet,” said Mr. Beaufort, spurring his own 
horse. The animal cantered towards the gate, and then 
suddenly turned round with an impatient and angry snort. 
“For shame, Puppet ! — for shame, old boy ! ” said the 
sportsman, wheeling him again to the barrier. The horse 
shook his head, as if in remonstrance; but the" spur 
vigorously applied, showed him that his master would 
not listen to his mute reasonings. He bounded forward 
— made at the gate — struck his hoofs against the top- 
bar — fell forward, and threw his rider head foremost on 
the road beyond. The horse rose instantly — not so t-V 
master The son dismounted, alarmed and terrified. His 
father was speechless ! and blood gushed from the mouth 
and nostrils, as the head drooped heavily on the boy’s 
breast. The bystanders had witnessed the fall — they 
crowded to the spot — they took the fallen man from the 
weak arms of the son — the head groom examined him 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 

with the eye of one who had picked up science from his 
experience in such casualties. 

“ Speak, brother ! — where are you hurt ? ” exclaimed 
Robert Beaufort. 

“ He will never speak more 1 ” said the groom, bursting 
into tears. “His neck is broken!” 

“ Send for the nearest surgeon,” cried Mr. Robert. 
“ Good God ! boy ! don’t mount that devilish horse 1” 

But Arthur had already leaped on the unhappy steed, 
which had been the cause of this appalling affliction. 
“Which way?” 

“ Straight on to ***** 0 nly two miles — every one 
knows Mr. Powis’s house. God bless you!” said the 
groom. - • 

Arthur vanished. 

“ Lift him carefully, and take him to the house,” said 
Mr. Robert. “ My poor brother ! my dear brother ! ” 

He was interrupted by a cry, a single shrill heart- 
breaking cry ; and Philip fell senseless to the ground. 

No one heeded him at that hour — no one heeded the 
fatherless bastard. “ Gently, gently,” said Mr. Robert, 
as he followed the servants and their load. And he then 
muttered to himself, and his sallow cheek grew bright, 
and his breath came sho ’t : “ He has made no will ! — he 
never made a will 1 ” 


73 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ Constance . 0 boy, then where art thou? 

.... What becomes of me?” — King John. 

It was three days after the death of Philip Beaufort 
— for the surgeon arrived only to confirm the judgment 
of the groom : — In the drawing-room of the cottage, the 
windows closed, lay the body, in its coffin, the lid not yet 
nailed down. There, prostrate on the floor, tearless, 
speechless, was the miserable Catherine ; poor Sidney, 
too young to comprehend all his loss, sobbing at her side ; 
while Philip apart, seated beside the coffin, gazed ab- 
stractedly on that cold rigid face, which had never known 
one frown for his boyish follies. 

In another room, that had been appropriated to the 
late owner, called his study, sat Robert Beaufort. Every- 
thing in this room spoke of the deceased. Partially 
separated from the rest of the house, it communicated by 
a winding staircase, with a chamber above, to which 
Philip had been wont to betake himself whenever he re- 
turned late, and over-exhilarated, from some rural feast 
crowning a hard day’s hunt. Above a quaint old-fashioned 
bureau of Dutch workmanship (which Philip had picked 
ap at a sale in the earlier years of his marriage) was a 
portrait of Catherine taken in the bloom of her youth. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


71 


On a peg on the door that led to the staircase, still hung 
his rough driving-coat. The window commanded the 
view of the paddock, in which the worn-out hunter or 
the unbroken co-lt grazed at will. Around the walls of 
the “ study ” — (a strange misnomer !) — hung prints of 
celebrated fox-hunts and renowned steeple-chases : guns, 
fishing-rods, and foxes’ brushes, ranged with a sportsman’s 
neatness, supplied the place of books. On the mantel- 
piece lay a cigar-case, a well-worn volume on the Veteri- 
nary Art, and the last number of The Sporting Magazine. 
And in that room — thus witnessing of the hardy, mascu- 
line, rural life, that had passed away — sallow, stooping, 
town- worn, sat, I say, Robert Beaufort, the heir-at-law, 
— alone : for the very day of the death he had remanded 
his son home with the letter that announced to his wife 
the change in their fortunes, and directed her to send his 
lawyer post-haste to the house of death. The bureau, 
and the drawers, and the boxes which contained the 
papers of the deceased, were open ; their contents had 
been ransacked ; no certificate of the private marriage, 
no hint of such an event ; not a paper found to signify 
the last wishes of the rich dead man. 

He had died, and made no sign. Mr. Robert Beaufort’3 
countenance was still and composed. 

A knock at the door was heard ; the lawyer entered. 

“ Sir, the undertakers are here, and Mr. Greaves has 
ordered the bells to be rung : at three o’clock he will read 
the service.” 

“ I am obliged to you, Blackwell, for taking these 


72 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

melancholy offices on yourself. My poor brother ! — it is 
so sudden ! But the funeral, you say, ought to take place 
to-day ? ” 

“ The weather is so warm,” said the lawyer, wiping his 
forehead. As he spoke, the Death-bell was heard. 

There was a pause. 

“ It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton 
if she had been his wife,” observed Mr. Blackwell. “ But 
I suppose persons of that kind have very little feeling. I 
must say, that it was fortunate for the family, that the 
event happened before Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into 
so improper a marriage.” 

“ It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you ordered the 
post-horses? I shall start immediately after the funeral.” 

“ What is to be done with the cottage, sir ? ” 

“ You may advertise it for sale.” 

“And Mrs. Morton and the boys ? ” 

“ Hum — we will consider. She was a tradesman’s 
daughter. I think I ought to provide for her suitably, 
eh?” * 

“ It is more than the world could expect from you, sir : 
it is very different from a wife.” 

“ Oh, very ! very much so, indeed ! Just ring for a 
lighted candle, we will seal up these boxes. And — I 
think I could take a sandwich. Poor Philip ! 

The funeral was over ; the dead shovelled away. What 
a strange thing it does seem, that that very form which 
we prized so charily, for which we prayed the winds to be 
gentle, which we lapped from the cold in our arms, from 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


73 


whose footstep we would have removed a stone, should 
be suddenly thrust out of sight — an abomination that the 
earth must not look upon — a despicable loathsomeness, 
to be concealed and to be forgotten ! And this same 
composition of bone and muscle that was yesterday so 
strong — which men respected, and women loved, and 
children clung to — to-day so lamentably powerless, unable 
to defend or protect those who lay nearest to its heart ; 
its riches wrested from it, its wishes spat upon, its influ- 
ence expiring with its last sigh I A breath from its lips 
making all that mighty difference between what it was 
and what it is ! 

The post-horses were at the door as the funeral pro- 
cession returned to the house. 

Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, 
and said, with his pocket-handkerchief still before his 
eyes — 

“ I will write to you in a few days, ma’am ; you will 
find that I shall not forget you. The cottage will be 
sold; but we shan’t hurry you. Good-bye, ma’am; 
good-bye, my boys ; ” and he patted his nephews on the 
head. 

Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his 
uncle, who muttered to himself, “That boy will come to 
no good ! ” Little Sidney put his hand into the rich 
man’s, and looked up, pleadingly, into his face. “ Can’t 
you say something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle 
Robert ? ” 

Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the britska 

I— 7 


74 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


— it had been his brother’s: the lawyer followed, and 
they drove away. 

A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house 
into the conservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother ; 
she had scarcely touched food, since Beaufort’s death. 
She was worn to a shadow ; her hair had turned grey. 
Now she had at last found tears, and she wept noiselessly 
but unceasingly. 

The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them 
carefully in his basket : he was about to select a nectarine 
that seemed riper than the rest, when his hand was roughly 
seized ; and the grulf voice of John Green, the gardener 
exclaimed, — 

“ What are you about, Master Philip ? you must not 
touch them ’ere fruit ! ” 

“ How dare you, fellow ! cried the young gentleman, 
in a tone of equal astonishment and wrath. 

“ None of your airs, Master Philip ! What I means 
is, that some great folks are coming to look at the place 
to-morrow ; and I won’t have my show of fruit spoiled 
by being pawed about by the like of you : so, that’s 
plain, Master Philip ! ” 

The boy grew very pale, but remaine’d silent. The 
gardener, delighted to retaliate the insolence he had re- 
ceived, continued — 

“ You need not go for to look so spiteful, master ; you 
are not the great man you thought you were ; you are 
nobody now, and so you will find ere long. So march 
out, if you please : I wants to lock up the glass.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


75 


As he spoke, he took the lad roughly by the arm ; but 
Philip, the most irascible of mortals, was strong for his 
years, and fearless as a young lion. He caught up a 
watering-pot, which the gardener had deposited while he 
expostulated with his late tyrant, and struck the man 
across the face with it so violently and so suddenly, that 
he fell back over the beds, and the glass crackled and 
shivered under him. Philip did not wait for the foe to 
recover his equilibrium ; but, taking up his grapes, and 
possessing himself quietly of the disputed nectarine, 
quitted the spot ; and the gardener did not think it pru- 
dent to pursue him. To boys, under ordinary .circum- 
stances — boys who have buffeted their way through a 
scolding nursery, a wrangling family, or a public school — • 
there would have been nothing in this squabble to dwell 
on the memory or vibrate on the nerves, after the first 
burst of passion ; but to Philip Beaufort it was an era in 
life ; it was the first insult he had ever received ; it was 
his initiation into that changed, rough, and terrible career, 
to which the spoiled darling of vanity and love was hence- 
forth condemned. His pride and his self-esteem had in- 
curred a fearful shock. He entered the house, and a 
sickness came 'over him ; his limbs trembled ; he sat down 
in the hall, and, placing the fruit beside him, covered his 
face with his hands anibwept. Those were not the tears 
of a boy, drawn from a shallow source ; they were the 
burning, agonizing, reluctant tears, that men shed, wrung 
from the heart as if it were its blood.. He had never been 
Rent to school, lest he should meet with mortification. He 


76 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


had had various tutors, trained to show, rather than to 
exact respect ; one succeeding another, at his own whim 
and caprice. His natural quickness, and a very strong, 
hard, inquisitive turn of mind, had enabled him, however, 
to pick up more knowledge, though of a desultory and 
miscellaneous nature, than boys of his age generally pos- 
sess ; and his roving, independent, out-of-door existence, 
had served to ripen his understanding. He had certainly, 
in spite of every precaution, arrived at some, though not 
very distinct, notion of his peculiar position ; but none 
of its inconveniences had visited him till that day. He 
began now to turn his eyes to the future ; and vague and 
dark forebodings — a consciousness of the shelter, the 
protector, the station, he had lost in his father’s death — 
crept coldly over him. While thus musing, a ring was 
heard at the bell ; he lifted his head ; it was the post-man 
with a letter. Philip hastily rose, and, averting his face, 
on which the tears were not dried, took the letter ; and 
then, snatching up his little basket of fruit, repaired to 
his mother’s room. 

The shutters were half closed on the bright day — oh, 
what a mockery is there in the smile of the happy sun 
when it shines on the wretched 1 Mrs. Morton sat, or 
rather crouched, in a distant corner ; her streaming eyes 
fixed on vacancy ; listless, drooping ; a very image of 
desolate woe ; and Sidney was weaving flower-chains at 
her feet. 

“ Mamma ! — mother 1 ” whispered Philip, as he threw 
his arms round her neck ; “ look up ! look up ! — my heart 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


77 


breaks to see you. Do taste this fruit : you will die too, 
if you go on thus ; and what will become of us — of 
Sidney ? ” 

Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his face, and 
strove to smile. 

“ See, too, I have brought you a letter ; perhaps good 
news : shall I break the seal ? ” 

Mrs. Morton shook her head gently, and took the letter 

— alas! how different from that one which Sidney had 
placed in her hands not two short weeks since — it was 
Mr. Robert Beaufort’s hand-writing. She shuddered, and 
laid it down. And then there suddenly, and for the first 
time, flashed across her the sense of her strange position 

— the dread of the future. What were her sons to be 
henceforth ? What herself ? Whatever the sanctity of 
her marriage, the law might fail her. At the disposition 
of Mr. Robert Beaufort the fate of three lives might de- 
pend. She gasped for breath ; again took up the letter ; 
and hurried over the contents : they ran thus : — 

“ Dear Madam, — Knowing that you must naturally be 
anxious as to the future prospects of your children and 
yourself, left by my poor brother destitute of all .pr y vision, 
I take the earliest opportunity which it seems to me that 
propriety and decorum allow, to apprise you of my inten- 
tions. I need not say that, properly speaking, you can 
have no kind of claim upon the relations of my late bro- 
ther ; nor will I hurt your feelings by those moral reflec- 
tions which at this season of sorrow cannot, I hope, fail 
7 * 


78 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

involuntarily to force themselves upon you. Without 
more than this mere allusion to your peculiar connection 
with my brother, I may, however, be permitted to add, 
that that connection tended very materially to separate 
him from the legitimate branches of his family ; and in 
consulting with them as to a provision for you and your 
children, I find that, besides scruples that are to be re- 
spected, some natural degree of soreness exists upon their 
minds. Out of regard, however, to my poor brother 
(though I saw very little of him of late years), I am 
willing to waive those feelings which, as a father and a 
husband, you may conceive that I share with the rest of 
my family. You will probably now decide on living with 
some of your own relations ; and that you may not be 
entirely a burden to them, I beg to say that I shall allow 
you a hundred a-year ; paid, if you prefer it, quarterly. 
You may also select such articles of linen and plate as 
you require for your own use. With regard to your sons, 
I have no objection to place them at a grammar-school, 
and, at a proper age, to apprentice them to any trade 
suitable to their future station, in the choice of which 
your own family can give you the best advice. If they 
conduct themselves properly, they may always depend on 
my protection. I do not wish to hurry your movements ; 
but it will probably be painful to you to remain longer 
than you can help in a place crowded with unpleasant re- 
collections ; and as the cottage is to be sold — indeed, 
my brother-in-law, Lord Lilburne, thinks it would suit 
him — you will be liable to the interruption of strangers 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 79 

to see it : and your prolonged residence at Fernside, you 
must be sensible, is rather an obstacle to the sale. I beg 
to inclose you a draft for £100 to pay any present ex- 
penses ; and to request, when you are settled, to know 
where the first quarter shall be paid. ^ 

“ I shall write to Mr. Jackson (who, I think, is the 
bailiff) to detail my instructions as to selling the crops, 
&c., and discharging the servants ; so that you may have 
no further trouble. 

“I am, Madam, 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“ Robert Beaufort. 

“ Berkeley Square , September 12 th, 18 — .” 

The le.tter fell from Catherine’s hands. Her grief was 
changed to indignation and scorn. 

“ The insolent ! ” she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. 

“ This to me ! to me ! — the wife, the lawful wife of his 

brother ! the wedded mother of his brother’s children ! ” 
“Say that again, mother! again — again!” cried 
Philip, in a loud voice. “ His wife ! — wedded ! ” 

“ I swear it,” said Catherine, solemnly. “ I kept the 
secret for your father’s sake. Now, for yours the truth 
must be proclaimed.” 

“ Thank God ! thank God ! ” murmured Philip, in a 
quivering voice, throwing his arms round his brother, 
“We ha/e no brand on our names*, Sidney.” 

At those, accents, so full of suppressed joy and pride, 
the mother felt at once all that ’her son had suspected and 


80 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


concealed. She felt that beneath his haughty and way- 
ward character there had lurked delicate and generous 
forbearance for her ; that from his equivocal position his 
very faults might have arisen ; and a pang of remorse for 
her long sacrifice of the children to the father shot through 
her heart. It was followed by a fear, an appalling fear^ 
more painful than the remorse. The proofs that were to 
clear herself and them ! The words of her husband, that 
last awful morning, rang in her ear. The minister dead ; 
the witness absent ; the register lost ! But the copy of 
that register ! j — the copy ! might not that suffice ? She 
groaned, and closed her eyes as if to shut out the future : 
then starting up, she hurried from the room, and went 
straight to Beaufort’s study. As she laid her hand on 
the latch of the door, she trembled and drew back. But 
care for the living was stronger at that moment than even 
anguish for the dead : she entered the apartment ; she 
passed with a firm step to the bureau. It was locked ; 
Robert Beaufort’s seal upon the lock : — on every cup- 
board, every box, every drawer, the same seal that spoke 
of rights more valued than her own. But Catherine was 
not daunted : she turned and saw Philip by her side ; she 
pointed to the bureau in silence ; the boy understood the 
appeal. He left the room, and returned in a few moments 
with a chisel. The lock was broken: tremblingly and 
eagerly Catherine ransacked the contents ; opened paper 
after paper, letter after letter, in vain : no certificate, no 
will, no memorial. Could the brother have abstracted 
the fatal proof? A word sufficed to explain to Philip 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


81 


what she sought for ; and his search was more minute 
than hers. Every possible receptacle for papers in that 
room, in the whole house, was explored, and still the 
search was fruitless. 

Three hours afterwards they were in the same room in 
which Philip had brought Robert Beaufort’s letter to his 
mother. Catherine was seated, tearless, but deadly pale 
with heart-sickness and dismay. 

“ Mother,” said Philip, “ may I now read the letter ? ” 

“Yes, boy ; and decide for us all.” She paused, and 
examined his face as he read. He felt her eye was upon 
him, and restrained his emotions as he proceeded. When 
he had done, he lifted his dark gaze upon Catherine’s 
watchful countenance. 

“Mother, whether or not we obtain our rights, you 
will stilh refuse this man’s charity? I am young — a 
boy ; but I am strong and active. I will work for you 
day and night. I have it in me — I feel it ; anything 
rather than eating his bread.” 

“ Philip ! Philip ! you are indeed my son ; your father’s 
son ! And have you no reproach for your mother, who 
so weakly, so criminally, concealed your birthright, till, 
alas ! discovery may be too late ? Oh ! reproach me, re- 
proach me ! it will be kindness. No ! do not kiss me ! I 
cannot bear it. Boy ! boy ! if, as my heart tells me, we 
fail in proof, do you understand what, in rHs world’s eye, 
I am ; what you are ? ” 

“ I do ! ” said Philip, firmly ; and he fell on his knees 
at her feet. “ Whatever others call you, yo i are a mother 


7* 


F 


82 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


and I your son. You are, in the judgment of Heaven, 
my father’s Wife, and I his Heir.” 

Catherine bowed her head, and, with a gush of tears, 
fell into his arms. Sidney crept up to her, and forced 
his lips to her cold cheek. “ Mamma ! what vexes you ? 
Mamma, mamma ! ” 

“ Oh, Sidney ! Sidney ! How like his father ! Look 
at him, Philip 1 Shall we do right to refuse him even 
this pittance ? Must he be a beggar too ? ” 

“Never a beggar,” said Philip, with a pride that 
showed what hard lessons he had yet to learn. “ The 
lawful sons of a Beaufort were not born to beg their 
bread 1 ” 


CHAPTER YI. 

“The storm above, and frozen world below. 

* * * * * 

The olive bough 
Faded and cast upon the common wind, 

And earth a doveless ark.” — Lam an Blanchard. 

Mr. Robert Beaueort was generally considered by the 
world a very worthy man. He had never committed any 
excess — never gambled nor incurred debt — nor fallen ini o 
the warm errors most common with his sex. He was a 
good husband — a careful father — an agreeable neighboi 
— rather charitable than otherwise, to the poor. He was 
honest and metriodical in his dealings, and had been knowr 
to behave handsomely in different relations of life. Mr 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 8*1 

Robert Beaufort, indeed, always meant to do what was 
right — in the eyes of the world ! He had no other rule 
of action but that which the world supplied : his religion 
was decorum — his sense of honor was regard to opinion. 
His heart was a dial to which the world was the sun : 
when the great eye of the public fell on it, it answered 
every purpose that a heart could answer ; but when that 
eye was invisible, the dial was mute — a piece of brass and 
nothing more. 

It is just to Robert Beaufort to assure the reader that 
he wholly disbelieved his brother’s story of a private mar- 
riage. He considered that tale, when heard for the first 
time, as the m^re invention (and a shallow one) of a man 
wishing to make the imprudent step he was about to take 
as respectable as he could. The careless tone of his brother 
when speaking upon the subject — his confession that of 
such a marriage there were no distinct proofs — except a 
copy of a register (which copy Robert had not found) — 
made his incredulity natural. He therefore deemed him- 
self under no obligation of delicacy, or respect, to a woman 
through whose means he had very nearly lost a noble suc- 
cession — a woman who had not even borne his brother’s 
name — a woman whom nobody knew. Had Mrs. Morton 
been Mrs. Beaufort, and the natural sons legitimate child- 
ren, Robert Beaufort, supposing their situation of relative 
power and dependence to have been the same, would have 
behaved with careful and scrupulous generosity. The 
world would have said, “Nothing can be handsomer than 
Mr. Robert Beaufort’s conduct ! ” Nay, if Mrs. Morton 


S4 NIGHT ANP MORNING. 

had been some divorced wife of birth and connexions, he 
would have made very different dispositions in her favor : 
ne would not have allowed the connexions to call him 
shabby. But here he felt that, all circumstances considered, 
the world, if it spoke at all, (which it would scarcely think 
it worth while to do,) would be on his side. An artful 
woman — low-born, and, of course, low-bred — who wanted 
to inveigle her rich and careless paramour into marriage ; 
what could be expected from the man she had sought to 
j n j ure — the rightful heir ? Was it not very good in him 
to do any thing for her, and, if he provided for the child- 
ren suitably to the original station of the mother, did he 
not go to the very utmost of reasonable expectation ? He 
certainly thought in his conscience, such as it was, that he 
had acted well — not extravagantly, not foolishly; but 
well He was sure the world would say so if it knew all : 
he was not bound to do anything. He was not, therefore, 
prepared for Catherine’s short, haughty, but temperate 
reply to his letter : a reply which conveyed a decided re- 
fusal of his offers — asserted positively her own marriage, 
and the claims of her children — intimated legal proceed- 
ings — and was signed in the name of Catherine Beau - 
fort. Mr.‘ Beaufort put the letter in his bureau, labelled, 
“Impertinent answer from Mrs. Morton, Sept. 14,” and 
was quite contented to forget the existence of the writer, 
until his lawyer, Mr. Blackwell, informed him that a suit 
had been instituted by Catherine. Mr. Robert turned 
pale, but Blackwell composed him. 

“ Pooh, sir ! you have nothing to fear. It is but ar> 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 6d 

attempt to extort money : the attorney is a low practi- 
tioner, accustomed to get up bad cases : they can make 
nothing of it.” 

This was true': whatever the rights of the case, poor 
Catherine had no proofs — no evidence — v.iich could 
justify a respectable lawyer to advise her proceeding to a 
suit. She named two witnesses of her marriage — one 
dead, the other could not be heard of. ' She selected for 
the alleged place in which the ceremony was performed a 
very remote village, in which it appeared that the register 
had been destroyed. No attested copy thereof was to be 
found, and Catherine was stunned on hearing that, even 
if found, it was doubtful whether it could be received as 4 
evidence, unless to corroborate actual personal testimony. 

It so happened that when Philip, many years ago, had 
received a copy, he had not shown it to Catherine, nor 
mentioned Mr. Jones’s name as the copyist. In fact, then 
only three years married to Catherine, his worldly caution 
had not yet been conquered by confident experience of 
her generosity. As for the mere moral evidence de- 
pendent on the publication of her bans in London, that 
amounted to no proof whatever; nor, on inquiry at 

X , did the Welsh villagers remember anything further 

than that, some fifteen years ago, a handsome gentleman 
had visited Mr. Price, and one or two rather thought that 
Mr. Price had married him to a lady from London ; evi- 
dence quite inadmissible against the deadly, damning fact, 
that, for fifteen years, Catherine had openly borne anothei 
name, and lived with Mr. Beaufort ostensibly as his mis- 

1—8 


NIGHT AND MOhNING 


m 

tress. Her generosity in this destroyed her case. Never- 
theless, she found a lo w practitioner, who took her money 
and neglected her cause ; so her suit was heard and dis> 
missed with contempt. Henceforth, then, indeed, in the 
eyes of the law and the public, Catherine was an impu- 
dent adventurer, and her sons were nameless outcasts. 

And now, relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert Beaufort 
entered upon the full enjoyment of his splendid fortune 
The house in Berkeley-square was furnished anew. Great 
dinners and gay routs were given in the ensuing spring. 
Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort became persons of considerable 
importance. The rich man had, even when poor, been 
9 ambitious; his ambition now centred in his only son. 
Arthur had always been considered a boy of talents and 
promise — to what might he not now aspire ? The term 
of his probation with the tutor was abridged, and Arthur 
Beaufort was sent at once to Oxford. 

Before he went to the university, during a short pre- 
paratory visit to his father, Arthur spoke to him of the 
Mortons. 

“What has become of them, sir ? and what have you 
done for them ? ” 

“ Done for them 1 ” said Mr. Beaufort, opening his eyes 
“ What should I do for persons who have just been harass- 
ing me with the most unprincipled litigation ? My con- 
duct to them has been too generous ; that is, all things 
considered. But when you are my age you will find there 
is very little gratitude in the world, Arthur.” 

“ Still, sir,” said Arthur, with the good-nature that be 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 8" 

i uged to him : “still, my uncle was greatly attached to 
them ; and the boys, at least, are guiltless.” 

“ Well, well ! ” replied Mr. Beaufort, a little impatient- 
ly ; “I believe they want for nothing : I fancy they are 
with the mother’s relations. Whenever they address me 
in a proper manner, they shall not find me revengeful or 
hard-hearted ; but, since we are on this topic,” continued 
the father, smoothing his shirt-frill with a care that show- 
ed his decorum even in trifles, “ I hope you see the results 
of that kind of connexion, and that you will take warn- 
ing by your poor uncle’s example. And now let us change 
the subject ; it is not a very pleasant one, and, at your age, 
the less your thoughts turn on such matters the better.” 

Arthur Beaufort, with the careless generosity of youth, 
that gauges other men’s conduct by its own sentiments, 
believed that his father, who had never been niggardly to 
himself, had really acted as his words implied ; and, en- 
grossed by the pursuits of the new and brilliant career 
opened, whether to his pleasures or his studies, suffered 
the objects of his inquiries to pass from his thoughts. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Morton, for by that name we must 
still call her, and her children, were settled in a small lodg- 
ing in an humble suburb ; situated on the high-road 
between Eernside and the metropolis. She saved from 
her hopeless law-suit, after the sale of her jewels and 
ornaments, a sufficient sum to enable her, with economy 
to live respectably for a year or two at least, during which 
time she might arrange her plans for the future. She 
reckoned, as a sure resource, upon the assistance of her 


88 


NTGHT AND MORNING. 


relations ; but it was one to which she applied with natural 
shame and reluctance. She had kept up a correspond- 
ence with her father during his life. To him, she never 
revealed the secret of her marriage, though she did not 
write like a person conscious of error. Perhaps, as she 
always said to her son, she had made to her husband a 
solemn promise never to divulge or even hint that secret 
until he himself should authorise its disclosure. For 
neither he nor Catherine ever contemplated separation or 
death. Alas ! how all of us, when happy, sleep secure 
in the dark shadows, which ought to warn us of the 
sorrows that are to come 1 Still Catherine’s father, a 
man of coarse mind and not rigid principles, did not take 
much to heart that connexion which he assumed to be 
illicit. She was provided for, that was some comfort : 
doubtless Mr. Beaufort would act like a gentleman, perhaps 
at last make her an honest woman and a lady. Mean- 
while, she had a fine house, and a fine carriage, and fine 
servants ; and so far from applying to him for money, was 
constantly sending him little presents. But Catherine 
only saw, in his permission of her correspondence, kind, 
forgiving, and trustful affection, and she loved him 
tenderly : when he died, the link that bound her to her 
family was broken. Her brother succeeded to the trade ; 
a man of probity and honor, but somewhat hard and un- 
amiable. In the only letter she had received from him 
— the one announcing her father’s death — he told her 
plainly, and very properly, that he could not countenance 
the life she led : that he had children growing up — that 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


89 


all intercourse between them was at an end, unless 3he 
left Mr. Beaufort ; when, if she sincerely repented, he 
would prove her affectionate brother. 

Though Catherine had at the time resented this letter 
as unfeeling — now, humbled and sorrow-stricken, she re- 
cognized the propriety of principle from which it emanated. 
Iler brother was well off for his station — she would ex- 
plain to him her real situation — he would believe her 
story. She would write to him, and beg him, at least, to 
give aid to her poor children. 

But this step she did not take till a considerable por- 
tion of her pittance was consumed— till nearly three parts 
of a year since Beaufort’s death had expired — and till 
sundry warnings, not to be lightly heeded, had made her 
forebode the probability of an early death for herself. 
From the age of sixteen, when she had been placed by 
Mr. Beaufort at the head of his household, she had been 
cradled, not in extravagance, but in an easy luxury, which 
had not brought with it habits of economy and thrift. 
She could grudge anything to herself, but to her children 
— his children, whose every whim had been anticipated, 
she had not the heart to be saving. She could have 
starved in a garret had she been alone ; but she could 
not see them wanting a comfort while she possessed a 
guinea. Philip, to do him justice, evinced a considera- 
tion not to have been expected from his early and arro- 
gant recklessness. But Sidney, who could expect con- 
sideration from such a child ? What could he know of 
.he change of circumstances — of the value of money? 

8 * 


90 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Did he seem dejected, Catherine would steal out and spend 
a week’s income on the lapful of toys which she brought 
home. Did he seem a shade more pale — did he com- 
plain of the slightest ailment, a doctor must be sent for. 
Alas ! her own ailments, neglected and untended, were 
growing beyond the reach of medicine. Anxious — fear- 
ful — gnawed by regret for the past — the thought of 
famine in the future — she daily fretted and wore herself 
away. She had cultivated her mind during her secluded 
residence with Mr. Beaufort, but she had learned none of 
the arts by which decayed gentlewomen keep the wolf 
from the door ; no little holiday accomplishments, which, 
in the day of need, turn to useful trade ; no water-color 
drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabrication of pretty 
gewgaws, no embroidery and fine needle-work. She was 
helpless — utterly helpless; if she had resigned herself 
to the thought of service, she would not have had the 
physical strength for a place of drudgery, and where 
could she have found the testimonials necessary for a place 
of trust ? A great change, at this time, was apparent in 
Philip. Had he fallen, then, into kind hands, and under 
guiding eyes, his passions and energies might have ripened 
into rare qualities and great virtues. But perhaps, as 
Goethe has somewhere said, “Experience, after all, is the 
best Teacher.” He kept a constant guard on his vehe- 
ment temper — his wayward will ; he would not have 
vexed his mother for the world. But, strange to say (it 
was a great mystery in the woman’s heart), in proportion 
as he became more amiable, it seemed that his mother 


NIGHT AND MORNING 91 

loved him less. Perhaps she did not, in that change 
recognize so closely the darling of the old time ; perhaps 
the very weaknesses and importunities of Sidney, the 
hourly sacrifices the child entailed upon her, endeared the 
younger son more to her from that natural sense of de- 
pendence and protection which forms the great bond 
between mother and child ; perhaps, too, as Philip had 
been one to inspire as much pride as affection, so the 
pride faded away with the expectations that had fed it, 
and carried off in its decay some of the affection that was 
intertwined with it. However this be, Philip had for- 
merly appeared the more spoiled and favored of the two ; 
and now Sidney seemed all in all. Thus, beneath the 
younger son’s caressing gentleness, there grew up a cer- 
tain regard for self ; it was latent, it took amiable colors ; 
it had even a certain charm and grace in so sweet a child, 
but selfishness it was not the less : in this he differed from 
his brother. Philip was self-willed : Sidney, self-loving. 
A certain timidity of character, endearing, perhaps, to 
the anxious heart of a mother, made this fault in the 
younger boy more likely to take root. For, in bold 
natures, there is a lavish and uncalculating recklessness 
which scorns self unconsciously : and though there is a 
fear which arises from a loving heart, and is but sym- 
pathy for others — the fear which belongs to a timid 
character is but egotism — but, when physical, the regard 
for one’s own person : when moral, the anxiety for one’s 
own interests. 

It was in a small room in r> lodging-house in the suburb 


« 


92 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


of H that Mrs. Morton was seated by the window, 

nervously awaiting the knock of the postman, who was 
expected to bring her brother’s reply to her letter. It 
was, therefore, between ten and eleven o’clock — a morn- 
ing in the merry month of June. It was hot and sultry, 
which is rare in an English June. A flytrap, red, white, 
and yellow, suspended from the ceiling, swarmed with 
flies ; flies were on the ceiling, flies buzzed at the windows ; 
the sofa and chairs of horse-hair seemed stuffed with flies. 
There was an air of heated discomfort in the thick, solid 
moreen curtains, in the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring 
carpet, in the very looking-glass over the chimney-piece, 
where a strip of mirror lay imprisoned in an embrace of 
frame covered with yellow muslin. We may talk of the 
dreariness of winter ; and winter, no doubt, is desolate : 
but what in the world is more dreary to eyes inured to 
the verdure and bloom of Nature — 

“The pomp of groves and garniture of fields.” 

— than a close room in a suburban lodging-house; the 
sun piercing every corner ; nothing fresh, nothing cool, 
nothing fragrant to be seen, felt, or inhaled ; all dust, 
glare, noise, with a chandler’s shop, perhaps, next door ? 
Sidney, armed with a pair of scissors, was cutting the 
pictures out of a story-book, which his mother/ had 
bought him the day before. Philip, who, of late, had 
taken much to rambling about the streets — it may be, in 
hopes of meeting one of those benevolent, eccentric, 
elderly gentlemen, he had read of in old novels, who sud- 
denly come to the relief of distressed virtue ; or, more 


9 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


83 


probably, from the restlessness that belonged to his 
adventurous temperament ; —Philip had left the house 
since breakfast. 

“ Oh I how hot this nasty room is ! ” exclaimed Sidney, 
abruptly, looking up from his employment. “ Sha’n’t we 
ever go into the country again, mamma ? ” 

“Not at present, my love.” 

“ 1 wish I could have my pony : why can’t I have my 
pony, mamma ? ” 

“ Because — because — the pony is sold, Sidney.” 

“ Who sold it ? ” 

“Your uncle.” 

“ He is a very naughty man, my uncle : is not he ? 
But, can’t I have another pony ? It would be so nice, 
this fino weather ? ” 

“Ah ! my dear, I wish I c<Duld afford it : but you shall 
have a ride this week ! Yes,” continued the mother, 
as if reasoning with herself, in excuse of the extrava- 
gance, “ he does not look well : poor child 1 he must have 
exercise.” 

“A ride 1 — oh ! that is my own kind mamma ! ” ex- 
claimed Sidney, clapping his hands. “Not on a donkey, 
you know ! — a pony. The man down the street, there, 
lets ponies. I must have the white pony with the long 
tail. But, I say, mamma, don’t tell Philip, pray don’t; 
he would be jealous.” 

“No, not jealous, my dear ; why do you think so ?” 

“Because he is always angry when I ask you for any- 
thing. It is very unkind in him, for I don’t care if he has 
a pony, too — only not the white one.” 


94 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

Here the postman’s knock, loud and sudden, startled 
Mrs. Morton from her seat.* She pressed her hands tightly 
to her heart, as if to still its beating, and went tremu- 
lously to the door ; thence to the stairs, to anticipate the 
lumbering step of the slip-shod maid-servant. 

“ Give it me, Jane ; give it me 1 ” 

“ One shilling and eight-pence — charged double — if 
you please, ma’am! Thank you ” 

“ Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the pony ? ” 

“Not now, my love; sit down; be quiet; I — I am 
not well.” 

Sidney, who was affectionate and obedient, crept back 
peaceably to the window, and, after a short, impatient 
sigh, resumed the scissors and the story-book. I do not 
apologise to the reader for the various letters I am 
obliged to lay before him : for character often betrays 
itself more in letters than in speech. Mr. Roger Morton’s 
reply was couched in these terms : 

“Dear Catherine, — I have received your letter of 
the 14th inst., and write per return. I am very much 
grieved to hear of your afflictions; but, whatever you 
say, I cannot think the late Mr. Beaufort acted like a 
conscientious man, in forgetting to make his will, and 
leaving his little ones destitute. It is all very well to talk 
of his intentions ; but the proof of the pudding is in the 
eating. And it is hard upon me, who have a large family 
of my own, and get my livelihood by honest industry, to 
have a rich gentleman’s children to maintain As for 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


95 


four story about the private marriage, it may or not be. 
Perhaps you were taken in by that worthless man, for a 
real marriage it could not be. And, as you say, the law 
has decided that point ; therefore, the less you say on the 
matter the better. It all comes to the same thing. 
People are not bound to believe what can’t be proved. 
And even if what you say is true, you are more to be 
blamed than pitied for holding your tongue so many 
years, and discrediting an honest family as ours has al- 
ways been considered. I am sure my wife would not 
have thought of such a thing for the finest gentleman 
that ever wore shoe-leather. However, I don’t want to 
hurt your feelings ; and I am sure I am ready to do 
whatever is right and proper. You cannot expect that 
I should ask you to my house. My wife, you know, is a 
very religious woman — what is called evangelical ; but 
that’s neither here nor there: I deal with all people, 
churchmen and dissenters— even Jews,— and don’t trouble 
my head much about differences in opinion. I dare say 
there are many ways to heaven ; as I said, the other day, 
to Mr. Thwaites our member. But it is right to say my 
wife will not hear of your coming here ; and, indeed, it 
mio-ht do harm to my business, for there are several 
elderly single gentlewomen, who buy flannel for the poor 
at my shop, and they are very particular; as they ought 
to be, indeed : for morals are very strict in this count), 
and particularly in this town, where we certainly do pay 
very high church-rates. Not that I grumble ; for, though 
1 am as liberal as any man, I am for an established 


% 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


church ; as I ought to be, since the dean is my best 
customer. With regard t<» yourself, I inclose you 10Z., 
and you will let me know when it is gone, and I will see 
what more I can do. You say you are very poorly, 
which I am sorry to hear ; but you must pluck up your 
spirits, and take in plain work ; and I really think you 
ought to apply to Mr. Robert Beaufort. He bears a 
high character ; and, notwithstanding your lawsuit, which 
I cannot approve of, I d^ire say he might allow you 40Z. 
or 50Z. a-year, if you apply properly, which would be the 
right thing in him. So much for you. As for the boys 
— poor, fatherless creatures ! — it is very hard that they 
should be so punished for no fault of their own ; and my 
wife, who, though strict, is a good-hearted woman, is 
ready and willing to do what I wish about them. You 
say the eldest is near sixteen, and well come on in his 
studies. I can get him a very good thing in a light, 
genteel way. My wife’s brother, Mr. Christopher Plask- 
with, is a bookseller and stationer, with pretty practice, 

in R . He is a clever man, and has a newspaper, 

which he kindly sends to me every week ; and, though it 
is not my county, it has some very sensible views, and is 
often noticed in the London papers, as ‘ our provincial 
contemporary.’ Mr. Plaskwith owes me some money, 
which I advanced him when he set up the paper ; and he 
has several times most honestly offered to pay me, in 
shares in the said paper. But, as the thing might break, 
and I don’t like concerns I don’t understand, I have not 
taken advantage of his very handsome proposals. Now 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


9t 


Plaskwith wrote me word, two days ago, that he wanted 
a genteel, smart lad, as assistant and ’prentice, and offered 
to take my eldest boy ; but we can’t spare him. I write 
to Christopher by this post ; and if your youth will run 
down on the top of the coach, and inquire for Mr. Plask- 
with — the fare is trifling — I have no doubt he will be 
engaged at once. But you will say, ‘ There’s the premium 
to consider I ” No such thing ; Kit will set off the pre- 
mium against his debt to me ; so you will have nothing 
to pay. ’Tis a very pretty business ; and the lad’s educa- 
tion will get him on ; so that’s off your mind. As to the 
little chap, I’ll take him at once. You say he is a pretty 
boy ; and a pretty boy is always a help in a linen-dra- 
per’s shop. He shall share and share with my own 
young folks ; and Mrs. Morton will take care of his wash- 
ing and morals. I conclude — (this is Mrs. M.’s sugges- 
tion) — that he has had the measles, cowpock, and hoop- 
ing cough, which please let me know. If he behave well, 
which, at his age, we can easily break him into, he is 
settled for life. So now you have got rid of two mouths 
to feed, and have nobody to think of but yourself, which 
must be a great comfort. Don’t forget to write to Mr. 
Beaufort ; and if he don’t do something for you, he’s not 
the gentleman I take him for : but you are my own flesh 
and blood, and shan’t starve ; for, though I don’t think 
it right in a man in business to encourage what’s wrong, 
yet, when a person’s down in the world, I think an ounce 
of help is better than a pound of preaching. My wife 
thinks' otherwise, and wants to send you some tracts; 
I. — 9 a 


98 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


bat everybody can’t be as correct as some folks. How- 
ever, as I said before, that’s neither here nor there. Let 
me know when your boy comes down, and also about the 
measles, cowpock, and hooping-cough ; also if all’s right 
with Mr. Plaskwith. So now I hope you will feel more 
comfortable ; and remain, 

“ Dear Catherine, 

“Your forgiving and affectionate brother, 

“ Roger Morton. 

“ High Street, N , June 13.” 

“ P. S. — Mrs. M. says that she will be a mother to 
your little boy, and that you had better mend up all his 
linen before you send him.” 

As Catherine finished this epistle, she lifted her eyes 
and beheld Philip. He had entered noiselessly, and he 
remained silent, leaning against the wall, and watching 
the face of his mother, which crimsoned with painful 
humiliation while she read. Philip was not now the trim 
and dainty stripling first introduced to the reader. He 
had outgrown his faded suit of funereal mourning ; his 
long-neglected hair hung elf-like and matted down his 
cheeks ; there was a gloomy look in his bright dark eyes. 
Poverty never betrays itself more than in the features and 
form of Pride. It was evident that his spirit endured, 
rather than accommodated itself to, his fallen state ; and, 
notwithstanding his soiled and threadbare garments, and 
a haggardness that ill becomes the years of palmy youth, 
there was about his whole mien and person a wild and 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


99 


savage grandeur more impressive than his former ruffling 
arrogance of manner. 

“ Well, mother, ” said he, with a strange mixture of 
sternness in his countenance, and pity in his voice ; 
“well, mother, and what says your brother ?” 

“ You decided for us once before, decide again. But 
I need not ask you ; you would never ” 

“ I don’t know,” interrupted Philip, vaguely; “let me 
see what we are to decide on.” 

Mrs. Morton was naturally a woman of high courage 
and spirit, but sickness and grief had worn down both ; 
and though Philip was but sixteen, there is something in 
the very nature of woman — especially in trouble — which 
makes her seek to lean on some other will than her own. 
She gave Philip the letter, and went quietly to sit down 
by Sidney. 

“ Your brother means well,” said Philip when he had 
concluded the epistle. 

“ Yes, but nothing is to be done ; I cannot, cannot send 
poor Sidney to — to ” and Mrs. Morton sobbed. 

“No, my dear, dear mother, no ; it would be terrible, 
indeed, to part you and him. But this bookseller — 
Plaskwith — perhaps I shall be able to support you both.” 

“ Why, you do not think, Philip, of being an appren- 
tice ! — you, who have been so brought up — you, who 
are so proud ! ” 

“ Mother, I would sweep the crossings for your sake ! 
Mother, for your sake I would go to my uncle Beaufort 
with my hat in my hand, for half-pence. Mother, I am 


100 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


not proud — I would be honest, if I can — but when I 
see you pining away, and so changed, the devil comes 
into me, and I often shudder lest I should commit some 
crime — what, I don’t know ! ” 

“ Come here, Philip — my own Philip — my son, my 
hope, my first-born !” — and the mother’s heart gushed 
forth in all the fondness of early days. “ Don’t speak so 
terribly, you frighten me ! ” 

She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him 
soothingly. He laid his burning temples on her bosom, 
and nestled himself to her, as he had been wont to do, 
after some stormy paroxysm of his passionate and way- 
ward infancy. So there they remained — their lips silent, 
their hearts speaking to each other — each from each 
taking strange succor and holy strength — till Philip 
rose, calm, and with a quiet smile, — “ Good-by, mother; 
I will go at once to Mr. Plaskwith.” 

“ But you have no money for the coach-fare ; here, 
Philip,” and she placed her purse in his hand, from which 
he reluctantly selected a few shillings. “And mind, if 
the man is rude, and you dislike him — mind, you must 
not subject yourself to insolence and mortification.” 

“ Oh, all will go well, don’t fear,” said Philip, cheer- 
fully, and he left the house. 

Towards evening he had reached his destination. The 
shop was of goodly exterior, with a private entrance ; 
over the shop was written, “ Christopher Plaskwith, Book- 
seller and Stationer : ” on the private door a brass plate, 
inscribed with “ R and * Mercury Office, Mr 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


101 


Plaskwith.” Philip applied at the private entrance, and 
was shown by a “ neat-handed Phillis” into a small office- 
room. In a few minutes the door opened, and the book- 
seller entered. 

Mr Christopher Plaskwith was a short, stout man, in 
drab-colored breeches, and gaiters to match ; a black 
coat and waistcoat ; he wore a large watch-chain, with a 
prodigious bunch of seals, alternated by small keys and 
old-fashioned mourning-rings. His complexion was pale 
and sodden, and his hair short, dark, and sleek. The 
bookseller valued himself on a likeness to Buonaparte ; 
and affected a short, brusque, peremptory manner, which 
he meant to be the indication of the vigorous and decisive 
character of his prototype. 

“ So you are the young gentleman Mr. Roger Morton 
recommends ? ” Here Mr. Plaskwith took out a huge 
pocket-book, slowly unclasped it, staring hard at Philip, 
with what he designed for a piercing and penetrative 
survey. 

“ This is the letter — no ! this is Sir Thomas Champer- 
down’s order for fifty copies of the last Mercury , con- 
taining his speech at the county meeting. Your age, 
young man ? — only sixteen ! — look older ; — that’s not it 
— that’s not it — and this is it I — sit down. Yes, Mr. 
Roger Morton recommends you — a relation — unfortunate 
circumstances — well-educated — hum ! Well, young man, 
what have you to say for yourself?” 

“ Sir ? ” 

“ Can you cast accounts ? — know book-keeping ?” 

9 * 


1C2 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“I know something of algebra, sir.” 

“Algebra ! — oh, what else ? ” 

“French and Latin.” 

“ Hum ! — may be useful. Why do you wear your hair 
so long ? — look at mine. What’s your name ? ” 

“Philip Morton.” 

“ Mr. Philip Morton, you have an intelligent counte- 
nance — I go a great deal by countenances. You know 
the terms? — most favorable to you. No premium — I 
settle that with Roger. I give board and bed — find your 
own washing. Habits regular — ’prenticeship only five 
years ; when over, must not set up in the same town. I 
will see to the indentures. When can you come ? ” 

“ When you please, sir.” 

“Day after to-morrow, by six o’clock coach.” 

“But, sir,” said Philip, “will there be no salary? 
— something, ever so small, that I could send to my 
mother ? ” 

“ Salary, at sixteen ? — board and bed — no premium I 
Salary, what for ? ’Prentices have no salary ! — you will 
have every comfort.” 

“ Give me less comfort, that I may give my mother 
more ; - — a little money, ever so little, and take it out of 
my board : I can do with one meal a-day, sir.” 

The bookseller was moved : he took a huge pinchful 
of snuff out of his waistcoat-pocket, and mused a mo- 
ment. He then said, as he re-examined Philip — 

“ Well, young man, I’ll tell you what we will do. You 
shall come here first upon trial ; — see if we like each 


NIGHT AND MORNING, 


103 


other before we sign the indentures ; — allow you, mean- 
while, five shillings a-week. If you show talent, will see 
if I and Roger can settle about some little allowance. 
That do, eh ? ” 

“ I thank you, sir, yes,” said Philip, gratefully. 

“Agreed, then. Follow me — present you to Mrs. P.” 

Thus saying, Mr. Plaskwith returned the letter to the 
pocket-book, and the pocket-book to the pocket ; and, 
putting his arms behind his coat-tails, threw up his chin, 
and strode through the passage into a small parlor, that 
looked upon a small garden. Here, seated round the 
table, were a thin lady, with a squint, (Mrs. Plaskwith,) 
two little girls, (the Misses Plaskwith,) also with squints, 
— and pinafores ; a young man of three or four-and- 
twenty, in nankeen trowsers, a little the worse for wash- 
ing, and a black velveteen jacket and waistcoat. This 
young gentleman was very much freckled ; wore his hair, 
which was dark and wiry, up at one side, down at the 
other ; had a short thick nose ; full lips ; and, when 
close to him, smelt of cigars. Such was Mr. Plimmins, 
Mr. Plaskwith’s factotum, foreman in the shop, assistant- 
editor to the Mercury. Mr. Plaskwith formally went 
the round of the introduction ; Mrs. P. nodded her head ; 
the Misses P. nudged each other, and griuned ; Mr. 
Plimmins passed his hand through his hair, glanced at 
the glass, and bowed % very politely. 

“Now, Mrs. P., my second cup, and give Mr. Morton 
his dish of tea. Must be tired, sir — hot day. Jemima, 
ring — no, go to the stairs, and call out, ‘ More buttered 


1 04 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


toast.’ That’s the shorter way — promptitude is my rule 
in life, Mr. Morton. Pray — hum, hum — have you ever, 
by chance, studied the biography of the great Napoleon 
Buonaparte ? ” 

Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and kicked Philip 
under the table. Philip looked fiercely at the foreman, 
and replied, sullenly, “No, sir.” 

“ That’s a pity. Napoleon Buonaparte was a very 
great man, — very ! You have seen his cast ? — there it is, 
on the dumb-waiter ! Look at it ! see a likeness, eh ? ” 

“ Likeness, sir ! I never saw Napoleon Buonaparte.” 
“Never saw him! No 1 just look round the room. 
Who does that bust put you in mind of ? who does it re- 
semble ? ” 

Here Mr. Plaskwith rose, and placed himself in an 
attitude ; his hand in his waistcoat, and his face pensively 
inclined towards the tea-table. “Now fancy me at St. 
Helena ; this table is the ocean. Now then, who is that 
cast like, Mr. Philip Morton ? ” 

“ I suppose, sir, it is like you ! ” 

“Ah, that it is ! strikes every one ! Does it not, Mrs. 
P., does it not ? And when you have known me longer, 
you will find a moral similitude — a moral, sir ! Straight- 
forward — short — to the point — bold — determined ! ” 
“ Bless me, Mr. P. ! ” said Mrs. Plaskwith, very queru- 
lously, “ do make haste with your tea ; the young gentle- 
man, I suppose, wants to go home, and the coach passes 
in a quarter of an hour.” 

Have you seen Kean in Richard the Third, Mr. Mor- 
ton ? ” asked Mr. Plimmins. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


105 


“ I have never seen a play.” 

“Never seen a play ! How very odd !” 

“Not at all odd, Mr. Plimmins,” said the stationer. 
“Mr. Morton has known troubles — so hand him the hot 
toast.” 

Silent and morose, but rather disdainful than sad, 
Philip listened to the babble round him, and observed 
the ungenial characters with which he was to associate. 
He cared not to please {that, alas ! had never been 
especially his study) ; it was enough for him if he could 
see, stretching to his mind’s eye beyond the walls of that 
dull room, the long vistas into fairer fortune. At six- 
teen, what sorrow can freeze the Hope, or what prophetic 
fear whisper “ Fool” to the Ambition ? He would bear 
back into ease and prosperity, if not into affluence and 
station, the dear ones left at home. From the eminence 
of five shillings a- week, he looked over the Promised 
Land. . 

At length, Mr. Plaskwith, pulling out his watch, said, 
“Just in time to catch the coach ; make your bow and 
be off — Smart’s the word ! ” Philip rose, took up his hat, 
made a stiff bow that included the whole group, and 
vanished with his host. 

Mrs. Plaskwith breathed more easily when he was gone. 

“ I never seed a more odd, fierce, ill-bred-looking young 
man ! I declare I am quite afraid of him. What an eye 
he has ! ” 

“Uncommonly dark; what, I may say, gipsy-like,” 
^ aid Mr. Plimmins. 

a* 


106 


NIGHT AND MORN- IN G. 


“He! he! You always do say such good things, 
Plimmins. Gipsy-like ! he ! he ! So he is ! I wonder 
if he can tell fortunes ? ” 

“ He’ll be long before he has a fortune of his own to 
tell. Ha! ha!” said Plimmins. 

“ He I he ! how very good ! you are so pleasant, 
Plimmins.” 

While these strictures on his appearance were still 
going on, Philip had already ascended the roof of the 
coach ; and, waving his hand, with the condescension of 
old times, to his future master, was carried away by the 
“Express” in a whirlwind of dust. 

“A very warm evening, sir,” said a passenger seated 
at his right ; puffing, while he spoke, from a short German 
pipe, a volume of smoke into Philip’s face. 

“Very warm. Be so good as to smoke into the face 
of the gentleman on the other side of you,” returned 
Philip, petulantly. 

“ Ho, ho ! ” replied the passenger, with a loud, power- 
ful laugh — the laugh of a strong man. “ You don’t take 
to the pipe yet ; you will by and by, when you have 
known the cares and anxieties that I have gone through. 
A pipe ! — it is a great soother ! — a pleasant comforter ! 
Blue devils fly before its honest breath ! It ripens the 
brain — it opens the heart; and the man who smokes, 
thinks like a sage and acts like a Samaritan ! ” 

Roused from his reverie by this quaint and unexpected 
declamation, Philip turned his quick glance at his neigh- 
bor. He saw a man, of great bulk, and immense phy 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 101 

Bical power — broad-shouldered — deep-chested — not cor- 
pulent, but taking the same girth from bone and muscle 
that a corpulent man does from flesh. He wore a blue 
coat — frogged, braided, and buttoned to the throat. A 
broad-brimmed straw hat, set on one side, gave a jaunty 
appearance to a countenance which, notwithstanding its 
jovial complexion and smiling mouth, had, in repose, a 
bold and decided character. It was a face well suited to 
the frame, inasmuch as it betokened a mind capable of 
wielding and mastering the brute physical force of body ; 
— light eyes of piercing intelligence ; rough, but resolute 
and striking features, and a jaw of iron. There was 
thought, there was power, there was passion, in the 
shaggy brow, the deep-ploughed lines, the dilated nostril, 
and the restless play of the lips. Philip looked hard and 
gravely, and the man returned his look. 

“ What do you think of me, young gentleman ? ” asked 
the passenger, as he replaced the pipe in his mouth. “ I 
am a fine-looking man, am I not ? ” 

“You seem a strange one.” 

“Strange! — Ay, I puzzle you, as I have done, and 
shall do, many. You cannot read me as easily as I can 
read you. Come, shall I guess at your character and 
circumstances ? You are a gentleman, or something like 
it, by birth ; — that the tone of your voice tells me. You 
are poor, devilish poor; — that the hole in your coat as- 
sures me. You are proud, fiery, discontented, and un- 
happy ; — all that I see in your face. It was because I 
saw those signs that I spoke to you. I volunteer no ac. 
quaintance with the happy ” 


108 


N I G II T AND MORNING. 


“ I dare say not ; for if you know all the unhappy, you 
must have a sufficiently large acquaintance,” returned 
Philip. 

“ Your wit is beyond your years ! What is your call- 
ing, if the question does not offend you ? ” 

“ I have none as yet,” said Philip, with a slight sigh, 
and a deep blush. 

“ More’s the pity ! ” grunted the smoker, with a long, 
emphatic, nasal intonation. “ I should have judged that 
you were a raw recruit in the camp of the enemy.” 

“Enemy! I don’t understand you.” 

“ In other words, a plant growing out of a lawyer’s 
desk. I will explain. There is one class of spiders, in- 
dustrious, hard-working octopedes, who, out of the sweat 
of their brains, (I take it, by-the-bye, that a spider must 
have a fine craniological development,) make their own 
webs and catch their own flies. There is another class 
of spiders who have no stuff in them wherewith to make 
webs ; they, therefore, wander about, looking out for 
food provided by the toil of their neighbors. Whenever 
they come to the web of a smaller spider, whose larder 
seems well supplied, they rush upon his domain — pursue 
him to his hole — eat him up if they can — reject him if he 
is too tough for their maws, and quietly possess them- 
selves of all the legs and wings they find dangling in his 
meshes : these spiders I call enemies — the world calls 
them lawyers ! ” 

Philip laughed : “ And who are the first class of spi- 
ders ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. lb) 

“ Honest creatures who openly confess that they live 
apon flies. Lawyers fall foul upon them, under pretence 
of delivering flies from their clutches. They are wonder- 
ful blood-suckers these lawyers, in spite of all their hy- 
pocrisy. Ha ! ha ! Ho ! ho ! ” 

And with a loud, rough chuckle, more expressive of 
malignity than mirth, the man turned himself round, ap- 
plied vigorously to his pipe, and sank into a silence 
which, as mile after mile glided past the wheels, he did 
not seem disposed to break. Neither was Philip inclined 
to be communicative. Considerations for his own state 
and prospects swallowed up the curiosity he might other- 
wise have felt as to his singular neighbor. He had not 
touched food since the early morning. Anxiety had 
made him insensible to hunger, till he arrived at Mr. 
Plaskwith’s ; and then, feverish, sore, and sick at heart, 
the sight of the luxuries gracing the tea-table only re- 
volted him. He did not now feel hunger, but he was 
fatigued and faint. For several nights the sleep which 
youth can so ill dispense with had been broken and dis- 
turbed ; and now, the rapid motion of the coach, and the 
free current of a fresher and more exhausting air than 
he had been accustomed to for many months, began to 
operate on his nerves like the intoxication of a narcotic. 
His eyes grew heavy ; indistinct mists, through which 
there seemed to glare the various squints of the female 
Plaskwiths, succeeded the gliding road and the dancing 
trees. His head fell on his bosom ; and thence, instinc- 
tively seeking the strongest support at hand, inclined 

I. — 10 


UO NIGHT AND MORNING. 

towards the stout smoker, and finally nestled itself com- 
posedly on that gentleman’s shoulder. The passenger, 
feeling this unwelcome and unsolicited weight, took the 
pipe, which he had already thrice refilled, /frcrn his lips, 
and emitted an angry and impatient snort; finding that 
this produced no effect, and that the load grew heavier 
as the boy’s sleep grew deeper, he cried, in a loud voice, 
“ Holla ! I did not pay my fare to be your bolster, young 
man 1 ’’ and shook himself lustily. Philip started, and 
would have fallen sidelong from the coach, if his neighbor 
had not griped him hard with a hand that could have 
kept a young oak from falling. 

“ Rouse yourself ! — you might have had an ugly 
tumble.” 

Philip muttered something inaudible, between sleeping 
and waking, and turned his dark eyes towards the man ; 
in that glance there was so much unconscious, but sad 
and deep reproach, that the passenger felt touched and 
ashamed. Before, however, he could say anything in 
apology or conciliation, Philip had again fallen asleep. 
But this time, as if he had felt and resented * the rebuff 
he had received, he inclined his head away from his 
neighbor, against the edge of a box on the roof — a 
dangerous pillow* from which any sudden jolt might, 
transfer him to the road below. 

“ Poor lad 1 — he looks pale I ” muttered the man, and 
he knocked the weed from his pipe, which he placed 
gently in his pocket. “ Perhaps the smoke was too much 
for him — he seems ill and thin ; ” and he took the boy's 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Ill 


long lean fingers in his own. ' “ His cheek is hollow I — 
what do I know but it may be with fasting ? Pooh 1 I 
was a brute. Hush, coachee, hush ! don’t talk so loud, 

and be d d to you — he will certainly be off ; ” and the 

man softly and creepingly encircled the boy’s waist with 
his huge arm. “Now, then, to shift his head; so — so 
— that’s right.” Philip’s sallow cheek and long hair 
were now tenderly lapped on the soliloquist’s bosom. 
“ Poor wretch ! he smiles ; perhaps he is thinking of 
home, and the butterflies he ran after when he was an 
urchin — they never come back, those days; — never — 
never — never l I think the wind veers to the east; he 
may catch cold;” — and with that, the man sliding the 
head for a moment, and with the tenderness of a woman, 
from his breast to his shoulder, unbuttoned his coat (as 
he replaced the weight, no longer unwelcome, in its for- 
mer part), and drew the lappets closely round the slender 
frame of the sleeper, exposing his own sturdy breast — 
for he wore no waistcoat — to the sharpening air. Thus 
cradled on that stranger’s bosom, wrapped from the 
present, and dreaming perhaps — while a heart scorched 
by fierce and terrible struggles with life and sin made his 
pillow — of a fair and unsullied future, slept the fatherless 
and friendless boy. 


112 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER Y II. 

“ Constance. My life, my joy, my food, my all the world, 

My •widow-comfort.” — King John. 

Amidst the glare of lamps — the rattle of carriages — 
the lumbering of carts and waggons — the throng, the 
clamor, the reeking life and dissonant roar of London, 
Philip woke from his happy sleep. He woke, uncertain 
and confused, and saw strange eyes bent on him kindly 
and watchfully. 

“ You have slept well, my lad ! ” said the passenger, in 
the deep ringing voice which made itself heard above all 
the noises round. 

“And you have suffered me to incommode you thus ? ” 
said Philip, with more gratitude in his voice and look 
than, perhaps, he had shown to any one out of his own 
family since his birth. 

“You have had but little kindness shown you, my poor 
boy, if you think so much of this.” 

*'No — all people were very kind to me once. I did 
aot value it then.” Here the coach rolled heavily down 
the dark arch of the inn-yard. 

“ Take care of yourself, my boy ! You look ill ; ” and 
in the dark the man slipped a sovereign into Philip’s 
hand. 

“ 1 don’t want money. Though I thank you heartily 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


113 


all the same ; it would be a shame at my age to be a 
beggar. But, can you think of an employment where 1 
can make something ? — what they offer me is so trifling. 
I have a mother and a brother — a mere child, sir — at 
home.” 

“Employment ! ” repeated the man ; and as the coach 
now stopped at the tavern-door, the light from the lamp 
fell full on his marked face. “Ay, I know of employ- 
ment ; but you should apply to some one else to obtain 
it for you ! As for me, it is not likely that we shall meet 
again I” 

.“I am sorry for thatl — What and wno are you?” 
asked Philip, with a rude and blunt curiosity. 

“ Me 1 ” returned the passenger, with his deep laugh ; 
“ Oh ! I know some people who call me an honest fellow 
Take the employment offered you, no matter how trifling 
the wages — keep out of harm’s way. Good night to 
you 1 ” 

So saying, he quickly descended from the roof, and, as 
ne was directing the coachman where to look for his 
carpet-bag, Philip saw three or four well-dressed men 
make up to him, shake him heartily by the hand, and 
welcome him with great seeming cordiality. 

Philip sighed. “ He has friends,” he muttered to him- 
self; and, paying his fare, he turned from the bustling 
yard, and took his solitary way home. 

A week after his visit to It , Philip was settled on 

his probation at Mr. Plaskwith’s, and Mrs. Morton’s 
Dealth was so decidedly worse, that she resolved to know 
10* h 


/ 


1 14 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


her fate, and consult a physician. The oracle was at 
first ambiguous in its response. But when Mrs. Morton 
said firmly, “ I have duties to perform ; upon your candid 
answer rest my plans with respect to my children — left, 
if I die suddenly, destitute in the world ” — the doctor 
looked hard in her face, saw its calm resolution, and 
replied frankly — 

“ Lose no time, then, in arranging your plans ; life is 
uncertain with all — with you, especially ; you may live 
some time yet, but your constitution is much shaken — I 
fear there is water on the chest. No, ma’am — no fee. 
I will see you again.” 

The physician turned to Sidney, who played with his 
watch-chain, and smiled up in his face. 

“And that child, sir?” said the mother, wistfully, for- 
getting the dread fiat pronounced against herself, — “ he 
is so delicate ! ” 

“Not at all, ma’am, — a very fine little fellow;” and 
the doctor patted the boy’s head, and abruptly vanished. 

“Ah ! mamma, I wish you would ride — I wish you 
would take the white pony 1 ’’ 

“ Poor boy ! poor boy ! ” muttered the mother : “ 1 
must not be selfish.” She covered her face with her 
hands, and began to think ! 

Could she, thus doomed, resolve on declining her bro- 
ther’s offer ? Did it not, at least, secure bread and shelter 
to her child ? When she was dead, might not a tie, be- 
tween the uncle and nephew, be snapped asunder ? Would 
he be as kind to the boy as now when she could commen I 


\ 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


115 


him with her own lips to his care — when she could place 
that precious charge into his hands ? With these thoughts, 
she formed one of those resolutions which have all the 
strength of self-sacrificing love. She would put the boy 
from her, her last solace and comfort ; she would die 
alone, — alone ! 


CHAPTER YIII. 

“ Constance . When I shall meet him in the court of heaven, 

I shall not know him.” — King John. 

One evening, the shop closed and the business done, 
Mr. Roger Morton and his family sat in that snug and 
comfortable retreat which generally backs the ware-rooms 
of an English tradesman. Happy often, and indeed 
happy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet remote 
from, the toil and care of the busy mart from which its 
homely ease and peaceful security are drawn. Glance 
down those rows of silenced shops in a town at night, 
and picture the glad and quiet groups gathered within, 
over that nightly and social meal which custom has ban- 
ished from the more indolent tribes, who neither toil nor 
spin. Placed between the two extremes of life, the 
tradesman, who ventures not beyond his means, and sees 
clear books and sure gains, with enough of occupation 
to give healthful excitement, enough of fortune to greet 
each new-born child without a sigh, might be envied 


116 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


alike by those above and those below his state — if the 
restless heart of man ever envied Content ! 

“ And so the little boy is not to come ? ” said Mrs. 
Morton, as she crossed her knife and fork, and pushed 
away her plate, in token that she had done supper. 

“ I don’t know. — Children, go to bed ; there — there — 
that will do. Good night ! — Catherine does not say either 
yes or no. She wants time to consider.” 

“ It was a very handsome offer on our part ; some folks 
never know when they are well off.” 

“ That is very true, my dear, and you are a very sensi- 
ble person. Kate herself might have been an honest 
woman, and, what is more, a very rich woman, by this 
time. She might have married Spencer, the young 
brewer — an excellent man, and well to do ! ” 

“Spencer! I don’t remember him.” 

“ No : after she went off, he retired from business, and 
left the place. I don’t know what’s become of him. He 
was mightily taken with her, to be sure. She was un- 
commonly handsome, my sister Catherine.” 

“Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. Morton,” said 
the wife, who was very much marked with the small-pox. 
“ We all have our temptations and trials ; this is a vale 
of tears, and without grace we are whited sepulchres. ” 

Mr. Morton mixed his brandy and water, and moved 
his chair into its customary corner. 

“ You saw your brother’s letter,” said he, after a pause ; 
“he gives young Philip a very good character.” 

“ The human heart is very deceitful,” replied Mrs. Mor- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


117 


ton, who, by the way, spoke through her nose. “ Pray 
Heaven he may be what he seems ; but what’s bred in the 
bone comes out in the flesh.” 

“ We must hope the best,” said Mr. Morton, mildly • 
“ and — put another lump into' the grog, my dear.” 

“ It is a mercy, I’m thinking, that we didn’t have the 
other little boy I dare say he has never even been 
taught his catechism : them people don’t know what it is 
to be a mother. And, besides, it would have been very 
awkward, Mr. M., we could never have said who he was : 
and I’ve no doubt Miss Pryinall would have been very 
curious.” 

“ Miss Pryinall be ! ” Mr. Morton checked him- 

self, took a large draught of the brandy and water, and 
added, “ Miss Pryinall wants to have a finger in every 
body’s pie.” 

“ But she buys a deal of flannel, and does great good 
to the town ; it was she who found out that Mrs. Giles 
was no better than she shonld be.” 

“ Poor Mrs. Giles ! — she came to the workhouse.” 

“ Poor Mrs. Giles, indeed ! I wonder, Mr. Morton, 
that you, a married man with a family, should say. poor 
Mrs. Giles ! ” 

“My dear, when people who have been well off come 
to the workhouse, they may be called poor : — but that’s 
neither here nor there : only, if the boy does come to us, 
we must look sharp upon Miss Pryinall.” 

“I hope lie won’t come, —it will be very unpleasant. 
And when a man has a wife and family, the less he med- 


118 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


dies with other folks and their little ones, the better. For 
as the Scripture says, ‘A man shall cleave to his wife 
and ’ ” 

Here a sharp, shrill ring at the bell was heard, and 
Mrs. Morton broke off into — 

“Well! I declare! at this hour; who can that be? 
And all gone to bed ! Do go and see, Mr. Morton ” 

Somewhat reluctantly and slowly, Mr. Morton rose ; 
and, proceeding to the passage, unbarred the door. A 
brief and muttered conversation followed, to the great 
irritability of Mrs. Morton, who stood in the passage — 
the candle in her hand. 

“ What is the matter, Mr. M. ? ” 

Mr. Morton turned back, looking agitated. 

“ Where’s my hat ? oh, here. My sister is come, at 
the inn.” 

“ Gracious me ! She does not go for to say she is your 
sister ? ” 

“ No, no : here’s her note — calls herself a lady that’s 
ill. I shall be back soon.” 

“ She can’t come here — she sha’n’t come here, Mr. M. 
I’m an honest woman — she can’t come here. You un- 
derstand ” 

Mr. Morton had naturally a stern countenance, stern 
to every one but his wife. The shrill tone to which he 
was so long accustomed jarred then on his heart as well 
as ear. He frowned, — 

“ Pshaw ! woman, you have no feeling ! ” said he, and 
walked out of the house, pulling his hat over his brows. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


119 


That was the only rude speech Mr. Morton had ever 
made to his better half. She treasured it up in her heart 
and memory; it was associated with the sister and the 
child ; and she was not a woman who ever forgave. 

Mr. Morton walked rapidly through the still, moon-lifc 
streets, till he reached the inn. A club was held that 
night in one of the rooms below ; and as he crossed the 
threshold, the sound of “hip — hip — hurrah !” mingled 
with the stamping of feet and the jingling of glasses, 
saluted his entrance. He was a stiff, sober, respectable 
man, — a man who, except at elections — he was a great 
politician — mixed in none of the revels of his more bois- 
terous town’s-men. The sounds, the spot, were ungenial 
to him. He paused, and the color of shame rose to his 
brow. He was ashamed to be there — ashamed to meet 
the desolate, and, as he believed, erring sister. 

A pretty maid-servant, heated and flushed with orders 
and compliments, crossed his path, with a tray full of 
glasses. 

“ There’s a lady come by the Telegraph ? ” 

“Yes, sir, up-stairs, Ho. 2, Mr. Morton.” 

Mr. Morton! He shrunk at the sound of his own 
name. “ My wife’s right,” he muttered. “ After all, this 
is more unpleasant than I thought for.” 

The slight stairs shook under his hasty tread. He 
opened the door of Ho. 2, and that Catherine, whom he 
had last seen at her age of gay sixteen, radiant with 
bloom, and, but for her air of pride, the model for a 
Hebe, — that Catherine, old ere youth was gone, pale. 


120 


NIGHT ANU MORNING. 


faded, the dark hair silvered over, the cheeks hollow, and 
the eye dim, — that Catherine fell upon his breast ! 

“ God bless you, brother ! How kind to come 1 ( How 
long since we have met ! 19 

“ Sit down, Catherine, my dear sister. You are faint 
— you are very much changed — very. I should not have 
known you.” 

“ Brother, I have brought my boy : it is painful to part 
from him — very — very painful : but it is right, and God’s 
will be done.” She turned, as she spoke, towards a little, 
deformed, rickety dwarf of a sofa, that seemed to hide 
itself in the darkest corner of the low, gloomy room ; and 
Morton followed her. With one hand she removed the 
shawl that she had thrown over the child, and placing the 
fore-finger of the other upon her' lips — lips that smiled 
then — she whispered, — “ We will not wake him, he is so 
tired. But I would not put him to bed till you had seen 
him.” 

And there slept poor Sidney, his fair cheek pillowed on 
his arm ; the soft, silky ringlets thrown from the delicate 
and unclouded brow ; the natural bloom increased by 
warmth and travel ; the lovely face so innocent and 
hushed ; the breathing so gentle and regular, as if never 
broken by a sigh. 

Mr. Morton drew his hand across his eyes. 

There was something very touching in the contrast'be- 
fcween that wakeful, anxious, forlorn woman, and the 
slumber of the unconscious boy. And in that moment, 
what breast upon which the light of Christian pity ol 


NIGHT. AND MORNING. 


121 


natural affection, had ever dawned, would, even supposing 
the world’s judgment were true, have recalled Catherine’s 
reputed error ? There is so divine a holiness in the love 
of a mother, that, no matter how the tie that binds her 
to the child was formed, she becomes, as it were, conse- 
crated and sacred ; and the past is forgotten, and the 
world and its harsh verdicts swept away, when that love 
alone is visible ; and the God, who watches over the little 
one, sheds his smile over the human deputy, in whose ten- 
derness there breathes His own ! 

“ You will be kind to him — will you not ? ” said Mrs. 
Morton, and the appeal was .made with that trustful, 
almost cheerful tone which implies, ‘Who would not be 
kind to a thing so fair and helpless V “He is very sen- 
sitive and very docile ; yon will never have occasion to 
say a hard word to him — never ! you have children of 
your own, brother ! ” 

“ He is a beautiful boy — beautiful. I will be a father 
to him ! ” 

As he spoke, — the recollection of his wife — sour, 
querulous, austere — came over him, but he said to him- 
self, “ She must take to such a child, — women always 
take to beauty.” 

ne bent down, and gently pressed his lips to Sidney’s 
forehead : Mrs. Morton replaced the shawl, and drew her 
brother to the other end of the room. 

“And now,” she said, coloring as she spoke, “ I must 
see your wife, brother : there is so much to say about a 
child that only a woman will recollect. Is she very good- 
I. — 11 


122 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


tempered and kind, your wife ? You know I never saw 
ner ; you married after — after I left. ” 

“ She is a very worthy woman,” said Mr. Morton, 
clearing his throat, “ and brought me some money ; she i 
has a will of her own as most women have ; but that’s 
neither here nor there — she is a good wife, as wives go ; 
and prudent and pains-taking — I don’t know what I 
should do without her.” 

“ Brother, I have one favor to request — a great favor.” 

“ Anything I can do in the way of money ? ” 

“ It has nothing to do with money. I can’t live long 
— don’t shake your head — I can’t live long. I have no 
fear for Philip, he has so much spirit — such strength of 
Character — but that child! I cannot bear to leave him 
altogether : let me stay in this town — I can lodge any- 
where; but to see him sometimes — to know I shall be in 
reach if he is ill — let me stay here — let me die here 1 ” 
“You must not talk so sadly — you are young yet — 
younger than I am — I don’t think of dying.” 

“Heaven forbid! but ” 

“Well — well,” interrupted Mr. Morton, who began 
to fear his feelings would hurry him into some promise 
which his wife would not suffer him to keep ; “you shall 
lalk to Margaret, — that is, Mrs. Morton — I will get 
her to see you — yes, I think I can contrive that ; and if 
you can arrange with her to stay, — but, you see, as she 

brought the money, and is a very particular woman v 

“I will see her ; thank you — thank you; she cannot 
refuse me.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


123 


“And, brother,” resumed Mrs. Morton, after a short 
pause, and speaking in a firm voice — “ and is it possible 
that you disbelieve my story — that you, like all the rest, 
consider my children the sons of shame ? ” 

There was an honest earnestness in Catherine’s voice, 
as she spoke, that might have convinced many. But 
M;l\ Morton was a man of facts, a practical man — a man 
who believed that law was always right, and that the im- 
probable was never true. 

He looked down as he answered, “ I think you have 
been a ve^y ill-used woman, Catherine, and that is all I 
ban say on the matter ; let us drop the subject.” 

“No ! I was not ill-used ; my husband — yes, my hus- 
band was noble and generous from first to last. It was 
for the sake of his children’s prospects — for the expecta- 
tions they, through him, might derive from his proud 
uncle, that he concealed our marriage. Do not blame 
Philip — do not condemn the dead.” 

“I don’t want to blame any one,” said Mr. Morton, 
rather angrily ; “ I am a plain man — a tradesman, and 
can only go by what in my class seems fair and honest, 
which I can’t think Mr. Beaufort’s conduct was, put it 
how you will ; if he marries you as you think, he gets rid 
of a witness, he destroys a certificate, and he dies with- 
out a will. However, all that’s neither here nor there. 
You do quite right not to take the name of Beaufort, 
since it is an uncommon name, and would always make 
the story public. Least said, soonest mended. You 
must always consider that yoqr children will be called 


124 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


natural children, and have their own way to make. No 
harm in that! — Warm day for your journey.” Cathe- 
rine sighed, and wiped her eyes ; she no longer reproached 
the world, since the. son of her own mother disbelieved 
her. 

The relations talked together for some minutes on the 
past — the present; but there was embarrassment and 
constraint on both sides — it was so difficult to avoid one 
subject ; and after sixteen years of absence, there is little 
left in common, even between those who once ‘played 
together round their parents’ knees, Mr. Morton was 
glad at last to find an excuse in Catherine’s fatigue t<$ 
leave her, “ Cheer up, and take a glass of something 
warm before you go to bed. Good -night ! ” these were 
his parting words. 

Long was the conference, and sleepless the couch, of 
Mr. and Mrs. Morton. At first, that estimable lady 
positively -declared she could not and would not visit 
Catherine : (as to receiving her, that was out of the 
question.) But she secretly resolved to give up that 
point in order to insist with greater strength upon another 
— viz., the impossibility of Catherine remaining in the 
town Such concession for the purpose of resistance 
being a very common and sagacious policy with married 
ladies. Accordingly, when suddenly, and with a good 
grace, Mrs. Morton appeared affected by her husband’s 
eloquence, and said, “Well, poor thing! if she is so ill, 
and you wish it so much, I will call to-morrow,” Mr 
Morton felt his heart softened towards the many excellent 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


m 

reasons which his wife urged against allowing Catherine 
to reside in the town. He was a political character 
he had many enemies ; the story of his seduced sister, 
now forgotten, would certainly be raked up, it would 
affect his comfort, perhaps his trade, certainly his eldest 
daughter, who was now thirteen ; it would be impossible 
then to adopt the plan hitherto resolved upon — of passing 
off Sidney as the legitimate orphan of a distant relation ; 
it would be made a great handle for gossip by Miss Pry- 
inall. Added to all these reasons, one not less strong 
occurred to Mr. Morton himself, — the uncommon and 
merciless rigidity of his wife would render all the other 
women in the town very glad of any topic that would 
humble her own sense of immaculate propriety. More- 
over, he saw that if Catherine did remain, it would be a 
perpetual source of irritation in his own home ; he was a 
man who liked an easy life, and avoided, as far as possi- 
ble, all food for domestic worry. And thus, when at 
length the wedded pair turned back to back, and com- 
posed themselves to sleep, the conditions of peace were 
settled, and the weaker party, as usual in diplomacy, 
sacrificed to the interests of the united powers. 

After breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Morton sallied 
out on her husband’s arm. Mr. Morton was rather a 
handsome man, with an air and look grave, composed, 
severe, that had tended much to raise his character in the 
town. Mrs. Morton was short, wiry, and bony. She 
had won her husband by making desperate love to him, 
to say nothing of a dower that enabled him to extend bis 
11 * 


/ 


126 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

business, new-front, as well as new-stock, his shop, and 
rise into the very first rank of tradesmen in his native 
town. He still believed that she was excessively fond 
of him — a common delusion of husbands, especially when 
henpecked. Mrs. Morton was , perhaps, fond of him in 
her own way ; for though her heart was not warm, there 
may be a great deal of fondness with very little feeling. 
The worthy lady was now clothed in her best. She had 
a proper pride in showing the rewards that belong to 
female virtue. Flowers adorned her Leghorn bonnet, 
and her green silk gown boasted four flounces, — such, 
then, was, I am told, the fashion. She wore, also, a very 
handsome black shawl, extremely heavy, though the day 
was oppressively hot, and with a deep border ; a smart 
sevigne brooch of yellow topazes glittered in her breast ; 
a huge gilt serpent glared from her waistband ; her hair, 
or more properly speaking her front , was tortured into 
very tight curls, and her feet into very tight half-laced 
boots, from which the fragrance of new leather had not 
yet departed. It was this last infliction, for il faut 
souffrir pour etre belle , which somewhat yet more acer- 
bated the ordinary acid of Mrs. Morton’s temper. The 
sweetest disposition is ruffled when the shoe pinches ; and 
it so happened that Mrs. Roger Morton was one of those 
ladies who always have chilblains in the winter and corns 
in the summer. 

“ So you say your sister is a beauty ? ” 

“Was a beauty, Mrs. M., — was a beauty. People 
alter.” 


ni6ht and morning. 


12 


“ A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is ” 

“My dear, can’t you walk faster?” 

“ If you had my corns, Mr. Morton, you would not 
talk in that way I ” 

The happy pair sank into silence, only broken by sun- 
dry “ How d’ye do’s ? ” and “ Good morning’s ! ” inter- 
changed with their friends, till they arrived at the inn 

“ Let us go up quickly,” said Mrs. Morton. 

And quiet — quiet to gloom, did the inn, so noisy over 
night, seem by morning. Tiie shutters partially closed to 
keep out the sun — the tap-room deserted — the passage 
smelling of stale smoke — an elderly dog, lazily snapping 
at the flies, at the foot of the staircase — not a soul to be 
seen at the bar. The husband and wife, glad to be 
unobserved, crept on tiptoe up the stairs, and entered 
Catherine’s apartment. 

Catherine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney — dressed, 
like Mrs. Roger Morton, to look his prettiest, nor yet 
aware of the change that awaited his destiny, but pleased 
at the excitement of seeing new friends, as handsome 
children sure of praise and petting usually are — stood by 
her side. 

“ My wife, — Catherine,” said Mr. Morton. Catherine 
rose eagerly, and gazed searchingly on her sister-in-law’s 
hard face. She swallowed the convulsive rising at her 
heart as she gazed, and' stretched out both her hands, not 
so much to welcome as to plead. Mrs. Roger Morton 
drew herself up, and then dropped a courtesy — it was an 
involuntary piece of good-breeding — it was extorted by 


128 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


the noble countenance, the matronly mien of Catherine, 
different from what she had anticipated — she dropped the 
courtesy, and Catherine took her hand and pressed it. 

“ This is my son ; ” she turned away her head. Sidney 
advanced towards his protectress who was to be, and Mrs. 
Roger muttered, — 

“ Come here, my dear ! A fine little boy ! ” 

“As fine a child as ever I saw!” said Mr. Morton, 
heartily, as he took Sidney on his lap, and stroked down 
his golden hair. 

This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, but she sat her 
self down, and said it was “very warm.” 

“Now go to that lady, my dear,” said Mr. Morton. 
“ Is she not a very nice lady ? — don’t you think you shall 
like her very much ? ” 

Sidney, the best-mannered child in the world, went 
boldly up to Mrs. Morton, as he was bid. Mrs. Morton 
was embarrassed. Some folks are so with other folks’ 
children : a child either removes all constraint from a 
party, or it increases the constraint tenfold. Mrs. Mor- 
ton, however, forced a smile, and said, — “I have a little 
boy at home about your age.” 

“ Have you ? ” exclaimed Catherine, eagerly ; and as 
if that confession made them friends at once, she drew a 
chair close to her sister-in-law’s, — “ My brother has told 
you all ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ And I shall stay here — in the town somewhere — and 
see him sometimes ? ” 


night and morning. 


129 


Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husband — her hus- 
band glanced at the door — and Catherine’s quick eye 
turned from one to the other. 

“ Mr. Morton will explain, ma’am,” said the wife. 

“ E-hem ! — Catherine, my dear, I am afraid that is out 
of the question,”- — began Mr. Morton, who, when fairly 
put to it, could be business-like enough. “You see by- 
gones are bygones, and it is no use raking them up. But 
many people in the town will recollect you.” 

“ No one will see me — no one, but you and Sidney.” 

. “ It will be sure to creep out won’t it, Mrs. Morton ?” 

“ Quite sure. Indeed, ma’am, it is impossible. Mr. 
Morton is so very respectable, and his neighbors pay so 
much attention to all he does ; and then, if we have an 
election in the autumn, you see, ma’am, he has a great 
stake in the place,* and is a public character.” 

“ That’s neither here nor there,” said Mr. Morton. 
“ But I say, Catherine, can your little boy go into the 
other room for a moment ? Margaret, suppose you take 
him and make friends.” 

Delighted to throw on her husband the burden of ex- 
planation, which she had originally meant to have all the 
importance of giving herself in tier most proper and 
patronizing manner, Mrs. Morton twisted her fingers into 
the boy’s hand, and, opening the door that communicated 
with the bed-room, left the brother and sister alone. And 
then Mr. Morton, with more tact and delicacy than might 
have been expected from him, began to soften to Cathe- 
rine the hardship of the separation he urged. He dwel* 
11 * 


i 


130 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


principally on what was best for the child. Boys were so 
brutal in their intercourse with each other. He had even 
thought it better to represent Philip to Mr. Plaskwith as 
a more distant relation than he was ; and he begged, by 
the bye, that Catherine would tell Philip to take the hint. 
But as for Sidney, sooner or later, he would go to a day- 
school — have companions of his own age — if his birth 
were known, he would be exposed to many mortifications 
— so much better, and so very easy, to bring him up as 
the lawful, that is the legal, offspring of some distant 
relation. 

“And,” cried poor Catherine, clasping her hands, 
“ when I am dead, is he never to know that I was his 
mother ? ” 

The anguish of that question thrilled the heart of the 
listener. He was affected below all the„surface that worldly 
thoughts and habits had laid, stratum by stratum, over 
the humanities within. He threw his arms round Cathe- 
rine, and strained her to his breast, — 

“No, my sister — my poor sister — he shall know it 
when he is old enough to understand, and to keep his 
own secret. He shall know, too, how we all loved and 
prized you once ; how young you were, how flattered and 
tempted ; how you were deceived ; for I know that — on 
my soul I do — I know it was not your fault. He shall 
know, too, how fondly you loved your child, and how you 
sacrificed, for his sake, the very comfort of being near 
him. He shall know it all — all!” 

“ My brother — my brother, I resign him — I am con- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


13 ) 


tent, t God reward yon. I will go — go quickly. I know 
you will take care of him now.” 

“ And you see,” resumed Mr. Morton, re-settling him- 
self, and wiping his eyes, {‘it is best, between you and 
me. that Mrs. Morton should have her own way in this. 
•She is a very good woman— t- very; but it’s prudent not 
to vex her. — You may come in now, Mrs. Morton.” 

Mrs. Morton and Sidney re-appeared. 

“We have settled it all,” said the husband. “When 
can we have him ? ” 

“ Not to-day,” said Mrs. Roger Morton; “you see, 
ma’am, we must get his bed ready, and his sheets well 
aired : I am very particular.” 

“ Certainly, certainly. Will he sleep alone ? — pardon 
me.” 

“ He shall have a room to himself,” said Mr. Morton. 
“Eh, my dear ? Next to Martha’s. Martha is our par- 
lor-maid — very good-natured girl, and fond of children.” 

Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, and said, 
“Yes, he can have that room.” 

“ Who can have that room ? ” asked Sidney, innocently 

“You, my dear,” replied Mr. Morton. 

“And where will mamma sleep ? I must sleep near 
mamma.” 

“ Mamma is going away,” said Catherine, in a firm 
voice, in which the despair would only have been felt by 
the acute ear of sympathy — “going away for a little 
time; but this gentleman and lady will be very — very 
kind to you ”, 


132 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“We will do our best, ma’am,” said Mrs. Morton. 

And as she spoke, a sudden light broke on the boy’s 
mind — he uttered a loud cry, broke from his aunt, rushed 
to his mother’s breast, and hid his face there, sobbing 
bitterly. 

“ 1 am afraid he has been very much spoiled,” whis- 
pered Mrs. Roger Morton. “ I don’t think we need stay 
longer — it will look suspicious. Good morning, ma’am ; 
we shall be ready^ to-morrow.” 

“ Good-bye, Catherine,” said Mr. Morton ; and he 
added, as he kissed her, “ Be of good heart, I will come 
up by myself, and spend tl^e evening with you.” 

It was the night after this interview. Sidney had gone 
to his new home ; they had been all kind to him — Mr. 
Morton, the children, Martha the parlor-maid. Mrs. 
Roger herself had given him a large slice of bread and 
jam, but had looked gloomy all the rest of the evening ; 
because, like a dog in a strange place, he refused to eat. 
His little heart was full, and his eyes, swimming with 
tears, were turned at every moment to the door. But he 
did not show the violent grief that might have been ex- 
pected. His very desolation, amidst the unfamiliar faces, 
awed and chilled him. But when Martha took him to 
bed, and undressed him, and he knelt down to say his 
prayers, and came to the words, “ Pray God bless dear 
mamma, and make me a good child,” his heart could con- 
tain its load no longer, and he sobbed with a passion that 
alarmed the good-natured servant. She had been used, 
however, to children, and she soothed and caressed him. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


133 


and told him of all the nice things he would do, and the 
nice toys he would have ; and at last, silenced, if not con- 
vinced, his eyes closed, and, the tears yet wet on their 
lashes — he fell asleep. 

It had been arranged that Catherine should return 
home that night by a late coach, which left the town at 
twelve. It was already past eleven. Mrs. Morton had 
retired to bed ; and her husband, who had, according to 
his wont, lingered behind to smoke a cigar over his last 
glass of brandy and water, had just thrown aside the 
stump, and was winding up his watch, when he heard a 
low tap at his window. He stood mute and alarmed, 
for the window opened on a back lane, dark and solitary 
at night, and, from the heat of the weather, the iron-cas(3d 
shutter was not yet closed ; the sound was repeated, and 
he heard a faint voice. He glanced at the poker, and 
then cautiously moved to the window, and looked forth — 
“ Who’s there ? ” 

“ It is I — it is Catharine ! I cannot go without seeing 
my boy. I must see him — I must, once more ! ” 

“ My dear sister, the place is shut up — it is impossible. 
God bless me, if Mrs Morton should hear you ! ” 

“I* have walked before this window for hours — “I 
have waited till all is hushed in your house, till no one, 
not even a menial, need see the mother stealing to the 
bed of her child. Brother ! by the memory of our own 
mother, I command you to let me look, for the last time, 
upon my boy’s face ! ” 

As Catherine said this, standing in that lonely street 

I. — 12 


134 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


• — darkness and solitude below, God and the stars above 
. — there was about her a majesty which awed the listener. 
Though she was so near, her features were not very 
clearly visible ; but her attitude — her hand raised aloft 
— the outline of her wasted, but still commanding, form, 
were more impressive from the shadowy dimness of the 
air. 

“ Come round, Catherine, ” said Mr. Morton, after a 
pause; “I will admit you.” 

He shut the window, stole to the door, unbarred it 
gently, and admitted his visitor. He bade her follow 
him ; and, shading the light with his hand, crept up the 
stairs. Catherine’s step made no sound. 

They passed, unmolested and unheard, the room in 
which the wife was drowsily reading, according to her 
custom, before she tied her night-cap and got into bed, 
a chapter in some pious book. They ascended to the 
chamber where Sidney lay; Morton opened the door 
cautiously, and stood at the threshold, so holding the 
candle, that its light might not wake the child, though 
it sufficed to guide Catherine to the bed. The room was 
small, perhaps close, but scrupulously clean ; for clean- 
liness was Mrs. Roger Morton’s capital virtue.,, The 
mother, with a tremulous hand, drew aside the white 
curtains, and checked her sobs as she gazed on the young 
quiet face that was turned towards her. She gazed some 
moments in passionate silence ; — who shall say, beneath 
that silence, what thoughts, what prayers, moved and 
stirred ? Then bending down, with pale, convulsive lips, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


105 


she kissed the little hands thrown so listlessly on the 
coverlid of the pillow on which the head lay. After 
this, she turned her face to her brother, with a mute 
appeal in her glance, took a ring from her finger — a ring 
that had never till then left it — the ring which Philip 
Beaufort had placed there the day after that child was 
born. “Let him wear this round his neck,” said she, 
and stopped, lest she should sob aloud, and disturb the 
boy. In that gift she felt as if she invoked the father’s 
spirit to watch over the friendless orphan ; and then, 
pressing together her own hands .firmly, as we do in some 
paroxysm of great pain, she turned from the room, de- 
scended the stairs, gained the street, and muttered to her 
brother — “I am happy now : peace be on these thres- 
holds 1 n Before he could answer, she was gone. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Thus things are strangely wrought, 

While joyful May doth last ; 

Take May in time — when May is gone, 

The pleasant time is past.” — Richard Edwards. 

From the Paradise of Dainty Devices. 

It was that period of the year when, to those who 
look on the surface of society, London wears its most 
radiant smile ; when shops are gayest, and trade most 
b'dsk ; when down the thoroughfares roll and glitter the 
r guiltless streams of indolent and voluptuous life ; when 


136 


NIGHT AND MORNING, 


the upper class spend, and the middle class make ; when 
the ball-room is the Market of Beauty, and the club- 
house the School for Scandal ; when the hells yawm for 
their prey, and opera-singers and fiddlers — creatures 
hatched from gold, as the dung-flies from the dung — 
swarm, and buzz, and fatten, round the hide of the genile 
Public. In the cant phrase, it was “ the London season. ” 
And happy, take it altogether, happy above the rest of 
the year, even for the hapless, is that period of ferment 
and fever. It is not the season for duns, and the debtor 
glides about with a less anxious eye ; and the weather is 
warm, and the vagrant sleeps, unfrozen, under the star-lit 
portico ; and the beggar thrives, and the thief rejoices 
— for the rankness of the civilisation has superfluities 
clutched by all. And out of the general corruption 
things sordid and things miserable crawl forth to bask 
in the common sunshine — things that perish when the 
first autumn-w r inds whistle along the melancholy city. It 
is the gay time for the heir and the beauty, and the 
statesman and the lawyer, and the mother with her young 
daughters, and the artist with his fresh pictures, and the 
poet with his new book. It is the gay time, too, for the 
starved journeyman, and the ragged outcast that with 
long stride and patient eyes follows, for pence, the eques- 
trian, who bids him go and be d d in vain. It is a 

gay time for the painted harlot in a crimson pelisse ; and 
a gay time for the old hag that loiters about the thres- 
holds of the gin-shop, to buy back, in a draught, the 
dreams of departed youth. It is gay, in fine, as the fill 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


131 


ness of a vast city is ever gay — for Yice as for Inno- 
cence, for Poverty as for Wealth. And the wheels of 
every single destiny wheel on the merrier, no matter 
whether they are bound to Heaven or to Hell. 

Arthur Beaufort, the young heir, was at his father’s 
h« use. He was fresh from Oxford, where he had alrea ly 
discovered that learning is not better than house and 
land. Since the new prospects opened to him, Arthur 
Beaufort was greatly changed. Naturally studious and 
prudent, Jiad his fortunes remained what they had been 
before his uncle’s death, he would probably have become 
a laborious and distinguished man. But though his 
abilities were good, he had irot those restless impulses 
which belong to Genius— often not only its glory but its 
curse. The Golden Bod cast his energies asleep at once. 
Good-natured to a fault, and somewhat vacillating in 
character, he adopted the manner and the code of the 
rich young idlers who were his equals at College. He 
became, like them, careless, extravagant, and fond of 
pleasure. This change, if it deteriorated his mind, im- 
proved his exterior. It was a change that could not but 
please women ; and of all women his mother the most. 
Mrs. Beaufort was a lady of high birth ; and in marrying 
her, Robert had hoped much from the interest of her 
connexions ; but a change in the ministry had thrown her 
relations out of power ; and, beyond her dowry, .he ob- 
tained no worldly advantage with the lady of his merce- 
nary choice. Mrs. Beaufort was a woman whom a word 
or two will describe. She was thoroughly commonplace 
12 * 


138 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


— neither bad nor good, neither clever nor silly. She 
was what is called well-bred ; that is, languid, silent, per- 
fectly dressed, and insipid. Of her two children, Arthur 
was almost the exclusive favorite, especially after he be- 
came the heir to such brilliant fortunes. For she was so 
much the mechanical creature of the world, that even her 
affection was warm or cold in proportion as the world 
shone on it. Without being absolutely in love with her 
husband, she liked him— they suited each other ; and (in 
spite of all the temptations that had beset h§r in their 
earlier years, for she had been esteemed a beauty — and 
lived, as worldly people must do, in circles where ex- 
amples of unpunished gallantry are numerous and con- 
tagious,) her conduct had ever been scrupulously correct. 
She had little or no feeling for misfortunes with which 
she had never come into contact ; for those with which 
she had — such as the distresses of younger sons, or the 
errors of fashionable women, or the disappointments of 
“ a proper ambition ” — she had more sympathy than 
might have been supposed, and touched on them with all 
the tact of well-bred charity and lady-like forbearance. 
Thus, though she was regarded as a strict person in point 
of moral decorum, yet in society she was popular — as 
women, at once pretty and inoffensive, generally are. 

* To do Mrs. Beaufort justice, she had not been privy to 
the letter her husband wrote to Catherine, although not 
wholly innocent of it. The fact is, that Robert had 
never mentioned to her the peculiar circumstances that 
made Catherine an exception from ordinary rules — the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


139 


3nerous propositions of his brother to him the night 
oefore his death ; and, whatever his incredulity as to the 
alleged private marriage, the perfect loyalty and faith 
that Catherine had borne to the deceased, — he had merely 
observed, “I must do something, I suppose, for that 
woman : she very nearly entrapped my poor brother into 
marrying her ; and he would then, for what I know, have 
cut Arthur out of the estates. Still, I must do some- 
thing for her — eh ? V 

“ Yes, I think so. What was she ? — very low ? ” 

“A tradesman’s daughter.” 

“ The children should be provided for according to the 
rank of the mother ; that’s the general rule in such cases : 
and the mother should have about the same provision she 
might have looked for if she had married a tradesman 
and been left a widow. I dare say she was a very artful 
kind of person, and don’t deserve anything ; but it is 
always handsomer, in the eyes of the world, to go by the 
general rules people lay down as to money matters.” 

So spoke Mrs. Beaufort. She concluded her husband 
had settled the matter, and never again recurred to it. 
Indeed, she had never liked the late Mr. Beaufort, whom 
she considered mauvais ton. 

In the breakfast-room at Mr. Beaufort’s, the mother 
and son were seated ; the former at work, the latter 
lounging by the window : they were not alone. In a 
large elbow-chair sat a middle-aged man, listening, or 
appearing to listen, to the prattle of a beautiful little girl 
—Arthur Beaufort’s sister. This man was not hands ime, 


140 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


but there was a certain elegance in his air, and a certain 
intelligence in his countenance, which made his appear- 
ance pleasing. He had that kind of eye which is often 
seen with red hair — an eye of a reddish hazel, with very 
long lashes ; the eyebrows were dark, and clearly defined ; 
and the short hair showed to advantage the contour of a 
small well-shaped head. His features were irregular ; 
the complexion had been sanguine, but was now faded, 
and a yellow tinge mingled with the red. His face was 
more wrinkled, especially round the eyes — which, when 
he laugh'ed, were scarcely visible — than is usual even in 
men ten years older. But his teeth were still of a daz- 
zling whiteness ; nor was there any trace of decayed 
health in his countenance. He seemed one who had 
lived hard, but who had much yet left in the lamp where- 
with to feed the wick. At the first glance, he appeared 
slight, as he lolled listlessly in his chair — almost fragile. 
But, at a nearer examination, you perceived that, in spite 
of the small extremities and delicate bones, his frame was 
constitutionally strong. Without being broad in the 
shoulders, he was exceedingly deep in the chest — deeper 
than men who seemed giants by his side ; and his ges- 
tures had the ease of one accustomed to an active life. 
He had, indeed, been celebrated in his youth for his skill 
in athletic exercises ; but a wound, received in a duel 
many years ago, had rendered him lame for life — a mis- 
fortune which interfered with his former habits, and was 
said to have soured his temper. This personage, whose 
position and character will be described hereafter, was 
Lord Lilburne, the brother of Mrs. Beaufort 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


141 


‘ So, Camilla, ” said Lord Lilburne to his niece, as 
carelessly, not fondly, he stroked down her glossy ringlets, 
“ you don’t like Berkeley Square as you did Gloucester 
Place.” 

“ Oh, no ! not half so much ! You see I never walk 
out in the fields,* nor make daisy-chains at Primrose Hill. 
I don’t know what mamma means,” added the child, in a 
whisper, “in saying we are better off here.” 

Lord Lilburne smiled, but the smile was a half sneer. 

“ You will know quite soon enough, Camilla ; the un- 
derstandings of young ladies grow up very quickly on this 
side of Oxford Street. — Well, Arthur, and what are your 
plans to-day ? ” 

“ Why,” said Arthur, suppressing a yawn, “ I have 
promised to ride out with a friend of mine, to see a horse 
that is for sale, somewhere in the suburbs.” 

As he spoke, Arthur rose, stretched himself, looked in 
the glass, and then glanced impatiently at the window. 

“He ought to be here by this time.” 

“ He ! who ? ” said Lord Lilburne, “ the horse or the 
other animal — I mean the friend?” 

“ The friend,” answered Arthur, smiling, but coloring 
while he smiled, for he half suspected the quiet sneer of 
his uncle. 

“ Who is your friend, Arthur ? ” asked Mrs. Beaufort, 
'ooking up from her work. 

“ Watson, an Oxford man. By the by, I must intro- 
duce him to you.” 

* Now the Regent’s Park 


142 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Watson! what Watson? what family of Watson? 
Some Watsons are good, and some are bad,” said Mrs. 
Beaufort, musingly. 

“ Then they are very unlike the rest of mankind,” ob- 
served Lord Lilburne, drily. 

“Oh! my Watson is a very gentlemanlike person, I 
assure you,” said Arthur, half laughing, “and you need 
not be ashamed of him.” Then, rather desirous of turn- 
ing the conversation, he continued, “ So my father will 
be back from Beaufort Court to-day.” 

“ Yes ; he writes in excellent spirits. He says the rents 
will bear raising at least ten per cent., and that the house 
will not require much repair.” 

Here Arthur threw open the window. 

“Ah, Watson ! how are you ? How d’ye do, Marsden ? 
Danvers, too ! that’s capital ! the more the merrier ! I 
will be down in an instant. But would you not rather 
come in ? ” 

“An agreeable inundation,” murmured Lord Lilburne. 
“ Three at a time : he takes your house for Trinity 
College.” 

A loud, clear voice, however, declined the invitation ; 
the horses were hearjJ pawing without. Arthur seized 
his hat and whip, and glanced to his mother and uncle, 
smilingly. “Good-bye 1 I shall be out till dinner. Ki^s 
me, my pretty ’Milly ! ” And as his sister, who had run 
to the window, sickening for the fresh air and exercise he 
was about to enjoy, now turned to him wistful and mourn- 
ful eyes, the kind-hearted young man took her in his arms, 
and whispered while he kissed her — 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 143 

“ Get np early to-morrow, and we’ll hav^e such a nice 
walk together.” 

Arthur was gone : his mother’s gaze had followed his 
young and graceful figure to the door. 

“ Own that he is handsome, Lilburne. May I not say 
more: — has he not the proper air?” 

“ My dear sister, your son will be rich. As for his air, 
he has plenty of airs, but wants graces.” 

“Then who could polish him like yourself?” 

“ Probably no one. But had I a son — which Heave : 
forbid ! — he should not have me for his Mentor. Place 
a young man — (go and shut the door, Camilla !) — between 
two vices — women and gambling, if you want to polish 
him into the fashionable smoothness. Entre vous, the 
varnish is a little expensive ! ” 

Mrs. Beaufort sighed. Lord Lilburne smiled. He had 
a strange pleasure in hurting the feelings of others. 
Besides, he disliked youth : in his own youth he had 
enjoyed so much that he grew sour when he saw the 
young. 

Meanwhile, Arthur Beaufort and his friends, careless 
of the warmth of the day, were laughing merrily, and 
talking gaily, as they made for the suburb of H . 

“It is an out-of-the-way place for a horse, too,” said 
Sir Harry Danvers. 

“But I assure you,” insisted Mr. Watson, earnestly, 
“ that my groom, who is a capital judge, says it is the 
cleverest hack he ever mounted. It has won several 
trotting matches. It belonged to a sporting tradesman, 
now dom i up. The advertisement caught me.” 


144 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

“ Well,” said Arthur, gaily, “ at all events, the ride is 
delightful. What weather ! You must all dine with me at 
Richmond to-morrow — we will row back.” 

“And a little chicken hazard, at the M -, after- 

wards,” said Mr. Marsden, who was an elder, not a 
better, man than the rest — a handsome, saturnine man 
— who had just left Oxford, and was already known on 
the turf. 

“Anything you please,” said Arthur, making his horse 
curvet. 

Ok Mr. R obert Beaufort 1 Mr. Robert Beaufort ! could 
four prudent, scheming, worldly heart but feel what 
devil's tricks your wealth was playing with a son who if 
poo? had been the pride of the Beauforts ! On one side 
of our pieces of gold we see the saint trampling, down 
the dragon : — False emblem ! Reverse it on the coin ! 
In the real use of the 'gold, it is the dragon who tramples 
down the saint ! But on — on ! the day is bright, and 
your companions merry ; make the best of your green 
years, Arthur Beaufort ! 

The young men had just entered the suburb of H , 

and were spurring on four abreast at a canter. At that 
time an old man, feeling his way before him with a stick, 
— for though not quite blind, he saw imperfectly, — was 
crossing- the road. Arthur and his friends, in loud con- 
verse, did not observe the poor passenger. He stopped 
abruptly, for his ear caught the sound of danger — it was 
too late : Mr. Marsden’s horse, hard-mouthed, and high- 
stepping, came full against him. Mr. Marsden looked 
down — 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


145 


“ Hang these old men ! always in the way,” said he, 
plaintively, and in the tone of a much-injured person, 
and, with that, Mr. Marsden rode on. But the others 
who were younger — who were not gamblers — who were 
uot yet grinded down into stone by the world’s wheels — 
the others halted. Arthur Beaufort leaped from his horse, 
and the old man was already in his arms ; but he was se- 
verely hurt. The blood trickled from his forehead ; he 
complained of pain in his side and limbs. 

“ Lean on me, my poor fellow 1 I will take you home. 
Do you live far off ? ” 

“ Not many yards. This would not have happened if 
I had had my dog. Never mind, sir, go your way. It is 
only an old man — what of that ? I wish I had my dog.” 

“I will join you,” said Arthur to his friends; “my 
groom has the direction. I will just take the poor old 
man home, and send for a surgeon. I shall not be long.” 

“ So like you, Beaufort : the best fellow in the world ! ” 
said Mr. Watson, with some emotion. “And there’s 
Marsden positively dismounted, and looking at his horse’s 
knees as if they could be hurt ! Here’s a sovereign for 
you, my man.” 

“ And here’s another,” said Sir Harry ; “so that’s set- 
tled. Well, you will join us, Beaufort ? You see the 
yard yonder. We’ll wait twenty minutes for you. Come 
on, Watson.” 

The old man had not picked up the sovereigns thrown 
at his feet, neither had he thanked the donors. And on 

I. — 13 


K 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


146 

his countenance there was a sour, querulous, resentful ex- 
pression. 

“ Must a man be a beggar because he is run over, oi 
because he is half blind ? ” said he, turning his dim, wan- 
dering eyes painfully towards Arthur. ‘‘Well, I wish I 
had my dog ! ” 

“ I will supply his place,” said Arthur, soothingly. 
“ Come, lean on me — heavier ; that’s right. You are not 
so bad, — eh ? ” 

“ Um ! — the sovereigns ! — it is wicked to leave them 
in the kennel ! ” 

Arthur smiled. “Here they are, sir.” 

The old man slid the coins into his pocket, and Arthur 
continued to talk, though he got but short answers, and 
those only in the way of direction* till at last the old man 
stopped at the door of a small house, near the church- 
yard. 

After twice ringing the bell, the door was opened by a 
middle-aged woman, whose appearance was above that 
of a common menial ; dressed, somewhat gaily for her 
years, in a cap seated very far back on a black toupet, and 
decorated with red ribands, an apron made out of an In- 
dian silk handkerchief, a puce-colored sarcenet gown, 
black silk-stockings, long gilt ear-rings, and a watch at 
her girdle. 

“Bless us, and save us, sir! What has happened ? ” 
exclaimed this worthy personage, holding up her hands. 

“ Pish ! I am faint : let me in. I don’t want your aid 
any more, sir. Thank you. Good day ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 14? 

Not discouraged by this farewell, the churlish tone of 
which fell harmles%on the invincibly sweet temper of Ar- 
thur, the young man continued to assist the sufferer along 
the narrow passage into a little old-fashioned parlor ; and 
no sooner was the owner deposited on his worm-eaten 
leather chair than he fainted away. On reaching the 
hcuse, Arthur had sent his servant (who had followed 
him with the horses) for the nearest surgeon ; and while 
the Woman was still employed, after taking off the suf- 
ferer’s cravat, in burning feathers under his nose, there 
was heard a sharp rap and a shrill ring. Arthur opened 
the door, and admitted a smart little man in nankeen 
breeches and gaiters. He bustled into the room 

“ What’s this — bad accident — um — um ! Sad thing, 
very sad. Open the window. A glass of water — a 
towel. So — so : I see — I see — no fracture — contusion. 
Help him off with his coat. Another chair, ma’am ; put 
up his poor legs. What age is he, ma’am ? — Sixty-eight 1 
Too old to bleed. Thank you. How is it, sir ? Poorly, 
to be sure : will be comfortable presently — faintish still ? 
Soon put all to rights.” 

“ Tray ! Tray ! Where’s Tray ? Where’s my dog, 
Mrs. Boxer ? ” 

“Lord, sir, what do you want with your dog now? 
He is in the back-yard.” 

“ And what business has my dog in the back-yard ? ” 
almost screamed the sufferer, in accents that denoted no 
diminution of vigor. “ I thought as soon as my back 
was turned my dog would be ill-used ! Why did I go 
without my dog ? Let in my dog directly, Mrs. Boxer ! ” 


148 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ All right, you see, sir,” said the apothecary, turning 
w Beaufort, “ no cause for alarm — v$ry comforting that 
little passion — does him good — sets one’s mind easy. 
How did it happen ? Ah, I understand ! knocked down 
— might have been worse. Your groom (sharp fellow !) 
explained in a trice, sir. Thought it was my old friend 
here by the description. Worthy man — settled here a 
many year — very odd — eccentric (this in a whisper). 
Came off instantly : just at dinner — cold lamb and salad. 

‘ Mrs. Perkins/ says I, ‘if any one calls for me, I shall be 
at No. 4, Prospect Place.’ Your servant observed the 
address, sir. Oh, very sharp fellow ! See how the old 
gentleman takes to his dog — fine little dog — what a 
stump of a tail 1 Heal of practice — expect two ac- 
couchement's every hour. Hot weather for child-birth. 
So says I to Mrs. Perkins, ‘ If Mrs. Plummer is taken, or 
Mrs. Everat, or if old Mr. Grub has another fit, send off 
at once to No. 4.’ Medical men should be always in the 
way — that’s my maxim. Now, sir, where do you feel the 
pain ? 

“In my ears, sir.” 

“Bless me, that looks bad. How long have you 
felt it ? ” 

“Ever since you have been in the room.” 

“ Oh ! I take. Ha ! ha ! — very eccentric — very ! ” 
muttered the apothecary, a little disconcerted. “ Well, 
let him lie down, ma’am. I’ll send him a little quieting 
draught to be taken directly — pill at night, aperient in 
the morning. If wanted, send for me — always to be 


149 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 

found. Bless me, that’s my boy Bob’s ring ! Please to 
open the door, ma’am. Know his ring — very peculiar 
knack of his own. Lay ten to one it is Mrs. Plummer, 
or, perhaps, Mrs. Everat — her ninth child in eight years 
— in the grocery line. A woman in a thousaud, sir ! ” 

Here a thin boy, with very short coat-sleeves, and very 
large hands, burst into the room with his mouth open. 

“ Sir — Mr. Perkins — sir 1 ” 

“ I know — I know — coming. Mrs. Plummer or Mrs. 
Everat ? ” 

“ No, sir ; it be the poor lady- at Mrs. Lacy’s ; she be 
taken desperate. Mrs.. Lacy’s girl has just been over to 
the shop, and made me run here to you, sir.” 

“ Mrs. Lacy’s ! oh, I know. Poor Mrs. Morton ! Bad 
case — very bad — must be off. Keep him quiet, ma’am, 
Good day 1 Look in to-morrow — nine o’clock. Put a 
little lint with the lotion on the head, ma’am. Mrs. 
Morton ! Ah ! bad job that.” 

Here the apothecary had shuffled himself off to the 
street-door, when Arthur laid his hand on his arm. 

“ Mrs. Morton ! Did you say Morton , sir ? What 
kind of a person — is she very ill?” 

“ Hopeless case, sir — general break-up. Nice woman 
quite the lady — known better days, I’m sure.” 

“ Has she any children — sons ! ” 

“ Two — both away now — fine lads — quite wrapped 
up in them — youngegt especially.” 

“ Good heavens ! it must be she — ill, and dying, and 
destitute, perhaps,” — exclaimed Arthur, with real and 
13 * 


150 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


deep feeling ; “I will go with you, sir. I fancy that I 
know this lady- -that (he added generously) I am related 
to her.” 

“ Do you ? — glad to hear it. Come along then; she 
ought to have some one near her besides servants : — not 
but what Jenny, the maid, is uncommonly kind. Dr. 

■ , who attends her sometimes, said to me, says he, — 

1 It is the mind. Mr. Perkins : I wish we could get back 
her boys.’ ” 

“ And where are they ? ” 

1 Prenticed out, I fancy. Master Sidney ” 

“ Sidney ! ” 

“Ah! that was his name — pretty name. D’ye know 
Sir Sidney Smith ? — extraordinary man, sir ! Master 
Sidney was a beautiful child — quite spoiled. She always 
fancied him ailing — always sending for me. ‘ Mr. Per- 
kins,’ said she, ‘ there’s something the matter with my 
child ; I’m sure there is, though he won’t own it. He 
has lost his appetite — had a head-ache last night.’ 
* Nothing the matter, ma’am,’ says I, ‘wish you’d think 
more of yourself.’ These mothers are silly, anxious, poor 
creatures. Nater, sir, nater — wonderful thing — nater I 
— Here we are.” 

And the apothecary knocked at the private door of a 
milliner and hosier’s shop 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


161 


CHAPTER X. 

“Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished.” 

Titus Andronicus. 

As might be expected, the excitement and fatigue of 
Catherine’s journey to N had considerably accelera- 

ted the progress of disease. And when she reached home, 
and looked round the cheerless rooms, all solitary, all 
hushed — Sidney gone, gone from her for ever; she felt, 
indeed, as if the last reed on which she had leaned was 
broken, and her business upon earth was done. Cathe- 
rine was not condemned to absolute poverty — the poverty 
which grinds and gnaws, the poverty of rags and famine. 
She had still left nearly half of such portion of the little 
capital, realized by the sale of her trinkets, as had escaped 
the clutch of the law ; and her brother had forced into 
her hands a note for 20 1 . with an assurance that the same 
sum should be paid to her half-yearly. Alas ! there was 
little chance of her needing it again ! She was not, then, 
in want of means to procure the common comforts of life. 
But now a new passion had entered into her breast — the 
passion of the miser ; she wished to hoard every sixpence 
as s )me little provision for her children. What was the 
use of her feeding a lamp nearly extinguished, and which 
was fated to be soon broken up and cast amidst the vast 
lumber-house o f Death ? She would willingly have re- 


152 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


moved into a more homely lodging, but the servant of the 
house had been so fond of Sidney — so kind to him. She 
clung to one familiar face on which there seemed to live 
the reflection of her child’s. But she relinquished the 
first floor for the second ; and there, day by day, she felt 
her eyes grow heavier and heavier beneath the clouds of 
the last sleep. Besides the aid of Mr. Perkins, a kind 
enough man in his way, the good physician, whom she 
had before consulted, still attended her, and — refused his 
fee. Shocked at perceiving that she rejected every little 
alleviation of her condition, and wishing at least to pro- 
cure for her last hours the society of one of her sons, he 
had inquired the address of the elder ; and on the day 
preceding the one in which Arthur discovered her abode, 
he dispatched to Philip the following letter : — 

“Sir, — Being called in to attend your mother in a 
lingering illness, which I fear may prove fatal, I think it 
my duty to request you to come to her as soon as you 
receive this. Your presence cannot but be a great com- 
fort to her. The nature of her illness is such that it is 
impossible to calculate exactly how long she may be 
spared to you ; but I am sure her fate might be prolonged, 
and her remaining days more happy, if she could be in- 
duced to remove into a better air and a more quiet 
neighborhood, to take more generous sustenance, and, 
above all, if her mind could be set more at ease as to you 
and your brother’s prospects. You must pardon me if I 
have seemed inquisitive ; but I have sought to draw from 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


153 


your mother some particulars as to her family and con 
nexions, with a wish to represent to them her state o f 
mind. She is, however, very reserved on these points. 
If, however, you have relations well to do in the world, I 
think some application to them should be made. I fear 
the state of her affairs weighs much upon your poor 
mother’s mind ; and I must leave you to judge how far it 
can be relieved by the good feeling of any persons upon 
whom she may have legitimate claims. At all events, I 
repeat my wish that you should come to her forthwith. 

“I am, &c. 

t i v 


After the physician had despatched this letter, a sudden 
and marked alteration for the worse took place in his 
patient’s disorder ; and in the visit he had paid that morn- 
ing, he saw cause to fear that her hours on earth would 
be much fewer than he had before anticipated. He had 
left her, however, comparatively better ; but two hours 
after his departure, the symptoms of her disease had be- 
come very alarming, and the good-natured servant-girl, 
her sole nurse, and who had, moreover, the whole business 
of the other lodgers to attend to, had, as we have seen, 
thought it necessary to summon the apothecary in the 
interval that must elapse before she could reach the dis- 
tant part of the metropolis in which Dr. resided. 

On entering the chamber, Arthur felt all the remorse, 
which of right belonged to his father, press heavily on his 
soul. What a contrast, that mean and solitary chamber 


13 * 


154 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


and its comfortless appurtenances, to the graceful and 
luxurious abode, where full of health and hope he had last 
beheld her, the mother of Philip Beaufort’s children ! He 
remained silent till Mr. Perkins, after a few questions, 
retired to send his drugs. He then approached the bed ; 
Catherine, though very weak and suffering much pain, 
was still sensible. She turned her dim eyes on the young 
man ; but she did not recognise his features. 

“ You do not remember me ? ” said he, in a voice strug- 
gling with tears : “I am Arthur — Arthur Beaufort.” 

Catherine made no answer. 

“ Good Heavens ! Why do I see you here ? I believed 
you with your friends — your children ; provided for — as 
became my father to do. He assured me that you were 
so.” 

Still no answer. 

And then the young man, overpowered with the feelings 
of a sympathising and generous nature, forgetting for a 
while Catherine’s weakness, poured fortn a torrent of in- 
quiries, regrets, and self-upbraidings, which Catherine at 
first little heeded. But the name of her children repeated 
again and again, struck upon that cord which, in a wo- 
man’s heart, is the last to break ; and she raised herself in 
her bed, and looked at her visitor wistfully. 

“ Your father,” she said, then — “your father was un- 
like my Philip : but I see things differently now. For me, 
all bounty is too late; but my children — to-morrow they 
may have no mother. The law is with you, but not jus- 
tice ! You will be rich and powerful ; — will you befriend 
my children ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


155 


“ Through life, so help me Heaven ! ” exclaimed Arthur, 
falling on his knees beside the bed. 

What then passed between them it is needless to detail : 
for it was little, save broken repetitions of the same prayer 
and the same response. But there was so much truth and 
earnestness in Arthur’s voice and countenance, that Cath- 
erine felt as if an angel had come there to administer 
comfort. And when late in the day the physician entered, 
he found his patient leaning on the breast of her young 
visitor, and looking on his face with a happy smile. 

The physician gathered enough from the appearance 
of Arthur and the gossip of Mr. Perkins, to conjecture 
that one of the rich relations he had attributed to Cath- 
erine, was arrived. Alas 1 for her it was now indeed too 
late ! 


CHAPTER XI. 

“D’ye stand amazed? — Look o’er thy head, Maximinian! 
Look to the terror which o’erliangs thee.” 

Beaumont and Fletcher: The Prophetess. 

Philip had been five weeks in his new home ; in another 
week, he was to enter on his articles of apprenticeship. 
With a stern, unbending gloom of manner, he had com- 
menced the duties of his novitiate. He submitted to all 
that was enjoined him. He seemed to have lost for ever 
the wild and unruly waywardness that had stamped his 
ooyhood ; but he was never seen to smile — he scarcely 


156 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


opened his lips. His very soul seemed to have quitted 
him with its faults ; and he performed all the functions of 
nis situation with the quiet listless regularity of a machine. 
Only when the work was done and the shop closed, instead 
of joining the family circle in the back-parlor, he would 
stroll out in the dusk of the evening, away from the town, 
and not return till the hour at which the family retired to 
rest. Punctual in all he did, he never exceeded that hour. 
He had heard once a-week from his mother ; and only on 
the mornings in which he expected a letter, did he seem 
restless and agitated. Till the postman entered the shop, 
he was as pale as death — his hands trembling — his lips 
compressed. When he read the letter, he became com- 
posed ; for Catherine sedulously concealed from her son 
the state of her health : she wrote cheerfully, besought 
him to content himself with the state into which he had 
fallen, and expressed her joy that in his letters he inti- 
mated that content ; for the poor boy’s letters were not 
less considerate than her own. On her return from her 
brother, she had so far silenced or concealed her misgiv- 
ings as to express satisfaction at the home she had pro- 
vided for Sidney ; and she even held out hopes of some 
future, when, their probation finished and their indepen- 
dence secured, she might reside with her sons alternately. 
These hopes redoubled Philip’s assiduity, and he saved 
every shilling of his weekly stipend ; and sighed as he 
thought that in another week his term of apprenticeship 
would commence and the stipend cease. 

Mr. Plaskwith could not but be pleased on the whole 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


151 


with the diligence of his assistant, but he was chafed and 
irritated by the sullenness of his manner. As for Mrs 
Plaskwith, poor woman ! she positively detested the taci- 
turn and moody boy, who never mingled in the jokes of 
the circle, nor played with the children, nor complimented 
her, nor added, in short, anything to the sociability of the 
house. Mr. Plimmins, who had at first sought to conde- 
scend, next sought to bully ; but the gaunt frame and 
savage eye of Philip awed the smirk youth, in spite of 
himself ; and he confessed to Mrs, Plaskwith that he should 
not like to meet “ the gipsy,” alone, on a dark night ; to 
which Mrs. Plaskwith replied, as usual, “that Mr. Plim- 
mins always did say the best things in the world ! ” » 

One morning, Philip was sent a few miles into the coum 
try, to assist in cataloguing some books in the library of 
Sir Thomas Champerdown — that gentleman, who was a 
scholar, having requested that some one acquainted with 
the Greek character might be sent to him, and Philip being 
the only one in the shop who possessed such knowledge. 

It was evening before he returned. Mr. and Mrs 
Plaskwith were both in the shop as he entered — in fact, 
they had been employed in talking him over. 

“I can’t abide him ! ” cried Mrs. Plaskwith. “ If you 
choose to take him for good, I shan’n’t have an easy 
moment. I’m sure the ’prentice that cut his master’s 
threat at Chatham, last week, was just like him.” 

“ Pshaw ! Mrs. P.,” said the bookseller, taking a huge 
^inch of snuff, as usual, from his waistcoat-pocket. “ 1 
myself was reserved when I was young ; — all reflective 
I. — 14 


158 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


people are. I may observe, by the by, that it was the 
case with Napoleon Buonaparte : still, however, I must 
own he is a disagreeable youth, though he attends to his 
business.’ 7 

“ And how fond of his money he is ! ” remarked Mrs. 
Plaskwith : “ he won’t buy himself a new pair of shoes ! — 
quite disgraceful ! And did you see what a look he gai? 
Plimmins, when he joked about his indifference to hii 
sole ? Plimmins always does say such good things ! ” 

“He is shabby, certainly,” said the bookseller; “but 
the value of a book does not always depend on the 
binding.” 

“ I hope he is honest ! ” observed Mrs. Plaskwith ; 

and here Philip entered. 

“Hum,” said Mr. Plaskwith; “you have had a long 
day’s work : but I suppose it will take a week to finish ? ” 

“ I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir : two more 
days will conclude the task.” 

“There’s a letter for you,” cried Mrs. Plaskwith; 
“you owes me for it.” 

“ A letter ! ” It was not his mother’s hand — it was a 
strange writing — he gasped for breath, as he broke the 
seal. It was the letter of the physician. 

His mother then was ill — dying — wanting, perhaps, 
the necessaries of life. She would have concealed from 
him her illness and her poverty. His quick alarm ex- 
aggerated the last into positive want • — he uttered a cry 
that rang through the shop, and rushed to Mr. Plaskwith. 

“ Sir, sir ! my mother is dying ! — She is poor, poor — 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


159 


perhaps, starving ; — money, money ! — lend me money ! 
— ten pounds ! — five ! — I will work for you all my life 
for nothing, but lend me the money 1 ” 

“ Hoity-toity ! ” said Mrs. Plaskwith, nudging her 
husband — “ I told you what would come of it : it will be 
‘money or life’ next time.” 

Philip did not heed or hear this address; but stood 
immediately before the bookseller, his hands clasped — 
wild impatience in his eyes. Mr. Plaskwith, somewhat 
stupefied, remained silent. 

“ Do you hear me ? — are you human ? ” exclaimed Phil- 
ip, his emotion revealing at once all the fire of his charac- 
ter. “ I tell you my mother is dying ; I must go to her ! 
Shall I go empty-handed ? — Give me money ! ” 

Mr. Plaskwith was not a bad-hearted man ; but he was 
a formal man and an irritable one. The tone his shop-boy 
(for so he^considered Philip) assumed to him, before his 
own wife too (examples are very dangerous), rather ex- 
asperated than moved him. 

“ That’s not the way to speak to your master ; — you 
forget yourself, young man ! ” 

“Forget! — But, sir, if she has not necessaries — if 
she is starving?” 

“ Fudge ! ” said Mr. Plaskwith. “ Mr. Morton writes 
me word that he has provided for your mother ! Does 
not he, Hannah ? ” 

“ More fool he, I’m sure, with such a fine family of his 
own ! Don’t look at me in that way, young man ; I won’t 
take it — that I won’t ! I declare my blood friz to see you ! ’ 


160 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Will you advance me money! — five pounds, Mr 
Plaskwith ? ” 

“ Not five shillings ! Talk to me in this style ! — not 
the man for it, sir ! — highly improper. Come, shut up 
the shop, and recollect yourself ; and, perhaps, when Sir 
Thomas’s library is done, I may let you go to town. 
You can’t go to-morrow. All a sham, perhaps; eh, 
Hannah ? ” 

“Very likely ! . Consult Plimmins. Better come away 
now, Mr. P. He looks like a young tiger.” 

Mrs. Plaskwith quitted the shop for the parlor. Her 
husband putting his hands behind his back, and throwing 
back his chin, was about to follow her. Philip, who had 
remained for the last moment mute and white as stone, 
turned abruptly ; and his grief taking rather the tone of 
rage than supplication, he threw himself before his 

master, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, said : — 

% 

“ I leave you — do hot let it be with a curse. I conjure 
you, have mercy on me ! ” 

Mr. Plaskwith stopped ; and had Philip tjien taken but 
a milder tone, all had been well. But, accustomed from 
childhood to command — all his fierce passions loose 
within him — despising the very man he thus implored — 
— the boy ruined his own cause. Indignant at the silence 
of Mr. Plaskwith, and too blinded by his emotions to see 
that in that silence there was relenting, he suddenly shook 
the little man with a vehemence that almost overset him, 
and cried : — 

“You who demand for five years my bones and blood 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 161 

— ray body and soul — a slave to your vile trade — do 
you deny me bread for a mother’s lips ? ” 

Trembling with anger and, perhaps, fear, Mr. Plask- 
with extricated himself from the gripe of Philip, and ; 

hurrying from the shop, said, as he banged the door : 

“ Beg my pardon for this to-night, or out you go to- 
morrow, neck and crop ! Zounds 1 a pretty pass the 
world’s come to ! I don’t believe a word about your 
mother. Baugh ! ” 

Left alone, Philip remained for some moments struggling 
with his wrath and agony. He then seized his hat, 
which he had thrown off on entering — pressed it over his 
brows — turned to quit the shop — when his eye fell upon 
the till. Plaskwith had left it open, and the gleam of the 
coin struck his gaze — that deadly smile of the arch- 
tempter. Intellect, reason, conscience — all, in that in- 
stant, were confusion and chaos. He cast a hurried 
glance round the solitary and darkening room — plunged 
his hand into the drawer, clutched he knew not what — 
silver or gold, as it came uppermost — and burst into a 
loud and bitter langh. That laugh itself startled him — 
it did not sound like his own. His face fell, and his 
knees knocked together — his hair bristled — he felt as if 
the very fiend had uttered that yell of joy over a fallen 
soul. 

“Ho — no — no 1 ” he muttered ; “no, my mother — not 
even for thee ! ” And dashing the money to the ground, 
he fled, like a maniac, from the house. 

14* L 


162 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Al a later hour that same evening, Mr. Robert Beau- 
fort returned from his country mansion to Berkeley 
Square. He found his wife very uneasy and nervous 
about the non-appearance of their only son. Arthur 
had sent home his groom and horses about seven o’clock, 
with a hurried scroll, written in pencil on a blank page 
torn from his pocket-book, and containing only these 
words : — 

“ Don’t wait dinner for me — I may not be home for 
some hours. I have met with a melancholy adventure. 
You will approve what I have done when we meet.” 

This note a little perplexed Mr. Beaufort ; but, as he 
was very hungry, he turned a deaf ear both to his wife’s 
conjectures and his own surmises, till he had refreshed 
himself ; and then he sent for the groom, and learned 
that, after the accident to the blind man, Mr. Arthur had 

been left at a hosier’s in H . This seemed to him 

extremely mysterious ; and, as hour after hour passed 
away, and still Arthur came not, he began to imbibe his 
wife’s fears, which were now wound up almost to hysterics ; 
and just at midnight he ordered his carriage, and taking 
with him the groom as a guide, set off to the suburban 
region. Mrs. Beaufort had wished to accompany him ; 
but the husband observing that young men would be 
young men, and that there might possibly be a lady in 
the case, Mrs. Beaufort, after a pause of thought, pas- 
sively agreed that, all things considered, she had better 
remain at home. No lady of proper decorum likes to 
run the risk of finding herself in a false position. Mr. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


163 


Beaufort accordingly set out alone. Easy was the car- 
riage — swift were the steeds — and luxuriously the wealthy 
man was whirled along. Not a suspicion of the true 
cause of Arthur’s detention crossed him ; but he thought 
of the snares of London — of artful females in distress ; 
“ a melancholy adventure ” generally implies love for the 
adventure, and money for the melancholy ; and Arthur 
was young — generous — with a heart and a pocket equally 
open to imposition. Such scrapes, however, do not 
terrify a father when he is a man of the world, so much 
as they do an anxious mother ; and, with more curiosity 
than alarm, Mr. Beaufort, after a short doze, found himself 
before the shop indicated. 

Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, the door to 
the private entrance was ajar, — a circumstance which 
seemed very suspicious to Mr. Beaufort. He pushed it 
open with caution and timidity-^a candle placed upon a 
chair in the narrow passage threw a sickly light over the 
flight of stairs, till swallowed up by the deep shadow from 
the sharp angle made by the ascent. Robert Beaufort 
stood a moment in some doubt whether to call, to knock, 
to recede, or to advance, when a step was heard upon 
the stairs above — it came nearer and nearer — a figure 
emerged from the shadow of the last landing-place, and 
Mr. Beaufort, to his great joy, recognised his son. 

Arthur did not, however^ seem to perceive his father ; 
and was about to pass him, when Mr. Beaufort laid his 
hand on his arm. 

“ What means all this, Arthur ? What place are you 
in ? How you have alarmed us ! ” 


164 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Arthur cast a look upon his father of sadness and re- 
proach. 

“ Father,” he said, in a tone that sounded stern — al- 
most commanding — “ I will show you where I have been : 
follow me — nay, I say, follow.” 

He turned, without another word re-ascended the 
stairs ; and Mr. Beaufort, surprised and awed into me- 
chanical obedience, did as his son desired. At the land- 
ing-place of the second floor, another long-wicked, ne- 
glected, ghastly candle emitted its cheerless ray. It 
gleamed through the open door of a small bed-room to 
the left, through which Beaufort perceived the forms of 
two women. One (it was the kindly maid-servant) was 
seated on a chair, and weeping bitterly ; the other (it was 
a hireling nurse, in the first and last day of her attendance) 
was unpinning her dingy shawl before she lay down to 
take a nap. She turned her vacant, listless face upon 
the two men, put on a doleful smile, and decently closed 
the door. ' 

u Where are we, I say, Arthur ? ” repeated Mr. Beau- 
fort. Arthur took his father’s hand — drew him into a 
room to the right — and taking up the candle, placed it 
on a small table beside a bed, and said, “ Here, sir — in 
the presence of Death ! ” 

Mr. Beaufort cast a hurried and fearful glance on the 
still, wan, serene face beneath* his eyes, and recognised in 
that glance the features of the neglected and the once- 
adored Catherine. 

“Yes — she, whom your brother so loved — the mother 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


166 


of his children — died in this squalid room, and far from 
her sons, in poverty, in sorrow ! — died of a broken heart ! 
Was that well, father? Have you in this nothing to 
repent ? ” 

Conscience-stricken and appalled, the worldly man 
sank down on a seat beside the bed, and covered his face 
with his hands. 

“Ay,” continned Arthur, almost bitterly — “ay, we, 
his nearest of kin — we, who have inherited his lands and 
gold — we have been thus heedless of that great legacy 
your brother bequeathed to us : — the things dearest to 
him — the woman he loved — the children his death cast, 
nameless and branded, on the world. Ay, weep, father ; 
and while you weep, think of the future, of reparation. I 
have sworn to that clay to befriend her sons ; join you, 
who have all the power, to fulfil the promise — join in that 
vow : and may Heaven not visit on us both tHe woes of 
this bed of death 1 ” 

“ I did not know — I — I ” faltered Mr. Beaufort. 

“ But we should have known,” interrupted Arthur, 
mournfully. “Ah, my dear father ! do not harden your 
heart by false excuses. The dead still speaks to you, and 
commends to your care her children. My task here is 
done : 0 sir ! yours is to come. I leave you alone with 
the dead.” 

So saying, the young man, whom the tragedy of the 
scene had worked into a passion and a dignity above his 
usual character, unwilling to trust himself farther to his 
emotions, turned abruptly from the room, fled rapidly 




166 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


down the stairs, and left the house. As the carriage and 
liveries of his father met his eye, he groaned ; for their 
evidences of comfort and wealth seemed a mockery to the 
deceased : he averted his face and walked on. Nor did 
he heed nor even perceive a form that at that instant 
rushed by him — pale, haggard, breathless — towards the 
house which he had quitted, and the door of which he 
left open, as he had found it — open, as the physician 
had left it when hurrying, ten minutes before the arrival 
of Mr. Beaufort, from the spot where his skill was im- 
potent. Wrapped in gloomy thought, alone, and on foot 
— at that dreary hour, and in that remote suburb — the 
heir of the Beauforts sought his splendid home. Anxious, 
fearful, hoping, the outcast orphan flew on to the death- 
room of his mother. 

Mr. Beaufort, who had but imperfectly heard Arthur’s 
parting accents, lost and bewildered by the strangeness 
of his situation, did not at first perceive that he was left 
alone. Surprised, and chilled by the sudden silence of 
the chamber, he rose, withdrew his hands from his face, 
and again he saw that countenance so mute and solemn. 
He cast his gaze round the dismal room for Arthur ; he 
called his name — no answer came ; a superstitious tre- 
mor seized upon him ; his limbs shook ; he sunk once 
more on his seat, and closed his eyes: muttering, for the 
first time, perhaps, since his childhood, words of penitence 
and prayer. He was roused from this bitter self-abstrac- 
tion by a deep groan. It seemed to come from the bed. 
Did his ears deceive him ? had the dead found a voice ? 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


161 


He started up in an agony of dread, and saw opposite 
to him the livid countenance of Philip Morton ; the Son 
of the Corpse had replaced the Son of the Living Man 1 
The dim and solitary light fell upon that countenance 
There, all the bloom and freshness natural to youth 
seemed blasted ! There, on those wasted features, played 
all the terrible power and glare of precocious passions — 
rage, woe, scorn, despair. Terrible is it to see upon the 
face of a boy the storm and whirlwind that should visit 
only the strong heart of a man 1 

“ She is dead! — dead! and in your presence !” 
shouted Philip, with his wild eyes fixed upon the cower- 
ing uncle ; “dead with care, perhaps with famine. And 
you have come to look upon your work ! ” 

“Indeed,” said Beaufort, deprecatingly, “I have but 
just arrived : I did not know she had been ill, or in want, 
upon my honor. This is alia — a — mistake: I — I — 

came in search of — of — another ” 

“ You did not , then, come to relieve her ? ” said Philip, 
very calmly. “You had not learned her suffering and 
distress, and flown hither in the hope that there was yet 
time to save her ? — You did not do this ? Ha ! ha ! — . 
why did I think it ? ” 

“ Did any one call, gentlemen ? ” said a whining voice 
at the door ; and the nurse put in her head. 

“Yes — yes — you may come in,” said Beaufort, 
shaking with nameless and cowardly apprehension ; but 
Philip had flown to the door, and, gazing on the nurse, 
said : 


168 


NIGHT. AND MORNING. 


u She is a stranger ! — see, a stranger ! The son now 
has assumed his post. Begone, woman ! ” And he 
pushed her away, and drew the bolt across the door. 

And then there looked upon him, as there had looked 
upon his reluctant companion, calm and holy, the face of 
the peaceful corpse. He burst into tears, and fell on Iris 
knees so close to Beaufort that he touched him ; he took 
up the heavy hand, and covered it with burning kisses 
“ Mother ! mother ! do not leave me ! wake, smile once 
more on your son ! I would have brought you money, 
but I could not have asked for your blessing, then; 
mother, I ask it now!” 

“If I had but known — if you had but written to me, 
my dear young gentleman — but my offers had been 
refused, and ” 

“ Offers of a hireling’s pittance to her ; to her for whom 
my father would have coined his heart’s blood into gold ! 

My father’s wife ! — his wife ! — offers ” 

He rose suddenly, folded his arms, and, facing Beau- 
fort, with a fierce determined brow, said, — 

“ Mark me, you hold the wealth that I was trained 
from my cradle to consider my heritage. I have worked 
with these hands for bread, and never complained, except 
to my own heart and soul. I never hated, and never 
cursed you — robber as you were — yes, robber ! For 
even were there no marriage save in the sight of God, 
neither my father, nor Nature, nor Heaven, meant that 
you should seize all, and that there should be nothing 
due to the claims of affection and blood. He was not 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


165 


the less my father, even if the Church spoke not on my 
side. Despoiler of the orphan, and derider of human 
love, you are not the less a robber, though the law fences 
you round, and men call you honest 1 Bui I did not hate 
you for this. Now, in the presence of my dead mother 
— dead, far from both her sons — now I abhor and curse 
you. You may think yourself safe when you quit this 
room — safe, and from my hatred ; you may be so : but 
do not deceive yourself, the curse of the widow and the 
orphan shall pursue — it shall cling to you and yours — 
it shall gnaw your heart in the midst of splendor — it 
shall cleave to the heritage of your son ! There shall be 
a death-bed yet, beside which you shall see the spectre 
of her, now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave ! 
These words — no, you never shall forget them — years 
hence they shall ring in your ears, and freeze the marrow 
of your bones ! And now begone, my father’s brother — 
begone from my mother’s corpse to your luxurious home ? ” 
He opened the door, and pointed to the stairs. Beau- 
fort, without a word, turned from the room and departed. 
He heard the door closed and locked as he descended the 
stairs ; but he did not hear the deep groans and vehement 
sobs in which the desolate orphan gave vent to the 
anguish which succeeded to the less sacred paroxysm of 
revenge and wrath. 


I. — 15 


BOOK SECOND. 


"Xbenb n?art)’€> uni) irutbe Sforgen* 
9Ummer, ninmier fianb id) flitt.’’ 

Schiller : Der Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Incubo. Look to the cavalier. What ails he ? 

* * * * / * * 

Hostess. And in such good clothes, too!” 

Beaumont and Fletcher : Love's Pilgrimage. 

“ Theod. I have a brother — there my last hope ! 

Thus as you find me, without fear or wisdom, 

I now am only child of Hope and Danger.” — Ibid. 

The time employed by Mr. Beaufort in reaching his 
home was haunted by gloomy and confused terrors. He 
felt inexplicably as if the denunciations of Philip were to 
visit less himself than his son. He trembled at the 
thought of Arthur meeting this strange, wild, exasperated 
scatterling — perhaps on the morrow — in the very height 
of his passions. And yet, after the scene between Arthur 
and himself, he saw cause to fear that he might not be 
able to exercise a sufficient authority over his son, how- 
ever naturally facile and obedient, to prevent his return 
to the house of death. In this dilemma he resolved, as 
is usual with cleverer men, even when yoked to yet feeblei 
helpmates, to hear if his wife had anything comforting oi 

( 170 ) 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


171 


sensible to say upon the subject. Accordingly, on reach- 
ing Berkeley Square, he went straight to Mrs. Beaufort; 
and having relieved her mind as to Arthur’s safety, related 
the scene in which he had been so unwilling an actor. 
With that more lively susceptibility which belongs to 
most women, however comparatively unfeeling, Mrs. 
Beaufort made greater allowance than her husband for 
the excitement Philip had betrayed. Still Beaufort’s de- 
scription of the dark menaces, the fierce countenance, the 
brigand-like form, of the bereaved son, gave her very 
considerable apprehensions for Arthur, should the young 
men meet ; and she willingly coincided with her husband 
in the propriety of using all means of parental persuasion 
or command tb guard against such an encounter. But, 
in the meanwhile, Arthur returned not, and new fears 
seized the anxious parents. He had gone forth alone, in 
a remote suburb of the metropolis, at a late hour, himself 
under strong excitement. He might have returned to 
the house, or have lost his way amidst some dark haunts 
of violence and crime ; they knew not where to send, or 
what to suggest. Day already began to dawn, and still 

he came not. At length, towards five o’clock, a loud 

0 

rap was heard at the door, and Mr. Beaufort, hearing 
some bustle in the hall, descended. He saw his son 
borne into the hall from a hackney-coach by two strangers, 
pale, bleeding, and apparently insensible. His first 
thought was that he had been murdered by Philip. He 
uttered a feeble cry, and sank down beside his son. 

“ Don’t be darnted, sir,” said one of the strangers, who 


172 


NIGHT ANDMORNING. 


seemed an artisan; “I don’t think he be much hurt. 
You sees he was crossing the street, and the coach ran 
against him ; but it did not go over his head ; it be 
only the stones that makes him bleed so : and that’s a 
mercy.” 

“A providence, sir,” said the other man ; “but Provi- 
dence watches over us all, night and day, sleep or wake. 
Hem ! We were passing at the time from the meeting — 
the Odd Fellows, sir — and so we took him, and got him 
a coach ; for we found his card in his pocket. He could 
not speak just then ; but the rattling of the coach did 
him a deal of good, for he groaned — my eyes 1 how he 
groaned ! — did not he, Burrows ? ” 

“It did one’s heart good to hear him.” 

“ Run for Astley Cooper — you — go to Brodie. Good 
Heavens ! he is dying. Be quick — quick I ” cried Mr. 
Beaufort to his servants, while Mrs. Beaufort, who had 
now gained the spot, with greater presence of mind, had 
Arthur conveyed into a room. 

“It is a judgment upon me,” groaned Beaufort, rooted 
to the stone of his hall, and left alone with the strangers. 

“ No, sir, it is not a judgment, it is a providence ,” said 
the more sanctimonious and better-dressed of the two 
men : “ for, put the question, if it had been a judgment, 
the wheel would have gone over him ; but it didn’t ; and, 
whether he dies or not, I shall always say that if that’s 
not a providence, I don’t know what is. We have come 
a long way, sir ; and Burrows is a poor man, though I’m 
well to do.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. lDf 

This hint for money restored Beaufort to his recol- 
lection ; he put his purse into the nearest hand out- 
stretched to clutch it, and muttered forth something like 
thanks. 

“ Sir, may the Lord bless you ! and I hope the young 
gentleman will do well. I am sure you have cause to be 
thankful that he was within an inch of the wheel ; was 
not he, Burrows ? Well, it’s enough to convert a heathen. 
But the ways of Providence are mysterious, and that’s 
the truth of it. Good night, sir.” 

Certainly it did seem as if the curse of Philip was 
already at its work. An accident almost similar to that 
which, in the adventure of the blind man, had led Arthur 
to the clue of Catherine, within twenty-four hours stretched 
A rthur himself upon his bed. The sorrow Mr. Beaufort 
had not relieved, was now at his own hearth. But there , 
were parents and nurses, and great physicians and skilfnl 
surgeons, and all the army that combine against Death 
— and there , were ease, and luxury, and kind eyes, and 
pitying looks, and all that can take the sting from pain. 
And thus, the very night on which Catherine had died, 
broken down, and worn out, upon a strange breast, with 
a feeless doctor, and by the ray of a single candle, the 
heir to the fortunes once destined to her son wrestled also 
with the grim Tyrant, who seemed, however, scared from 
his prey by the arts and luxuries which the world of rich 
men raises up in defiance of the grave. 

Arthur was, indeed, very seriously injured ; one of his 
ribs was broken, and he had received two severe contu- 
15 * 


174 


MIGHT AND MORNING. 


Bio as on the head. To insensibility succeeded fever, 
followed by delirium. He was in imminent danger for 
several days. If anything could console his parents for 
such an affliction, it was the thought that, at least, he was 
saved from the chance of meeting Philip. Mr. Beaufort, 
in the instinct of that capricious and fluctuating con- 
science which belongs to weak minds, which remains still, 
and drooping, and lifeless, as a flag on a mast-head during 
the calm of prosperity, but flutters, and flaps, and tosses, 
when the wind blows and the wave heaves, thought very 
acutely and remorsefully of the condition of the Mortons, 
during the danger of his own son. So far, indeed, from 
his anxiety for Arthur monopolizing all his care, it only 
sharpened his charity towards the orphans ; for many a 
man becomes devout and good when he fancies he has an 
immediate interest in appeasing Providence. The morn- 
ing after Arthur’s accident, he sent for Mr. Blackwell. 
He commissioned him to see that Catherine’s funeral 
rites were performed with all due care and attention ; he 
bade him obtain an interview with Philip, and assure 
the youth of Mr. Beaufort’s good and friendly disposition 
towards him, and to offer to forward his views in any 
course of education he might prefer, or any profession 
he might adopt; and he earnestly counselled the lawyer 
to employ all his tact and delicacy in conferring with one 
of so proud and fiery a temper. Mr. Blackwell, however, 
had no tact or delicacy to employ : he went to the house 
of mourning, forced his way to Philip, and the very ex- 
ordium of his harangue, which was devoted to praises 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


175 


of the extraordinary generosity and benevolence of his 
employer, mingled with condescending admonitions to- 
wards gratitude from Philip, so exasperated the boy, that 
Mr. Blackwell was extremely glad to get out of the house 
with a whole skin. He, however, did not neglect the 
more formal part of his mission ; but communicated im- 
mediately with a fashionable undertaker, and gave orders 
for a very genteel funeral. He thought after the funeraJ 
that Philip would be in a less excited state of mind, and 
more likely to hear reason ; he, therefore, deferred a 
second interview with the orphan till after that event ; 
and, in the meanwhile, despatched a letter to Mr. Beau- 
fort, stating that he had attended to his instructions ; 
that the orders for the funeral were given ; but that at 
present Mr. Philip Morton’s mind was a little disordered, 
and that he could not calmly discuss the plans for the 
future suggested by Mr. Beaufort. He did not doubt, 
however, that in another interview all would be arranged 
according to the wishes his client had so nobly conveyed 
to him. Mr. Beaufort’s conscience on this point was 
therefore set at rest. 

It was a dull, close, oppressive morning, upon which 
the remains of Catherine Morton were consigned to the 
grave. With the preparations for the funeral Philip did 
not interfere ; he did not inquire by whose orders all that 
solemnity of mutes, and coaches, and black plumes, and 
crape-bands, was appointed. If his vague and undevel- 
oped conjecture ascribed this last and vain attention to 
Robert Beaufort, it neither lessened the sullen resent- 


176 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


merit he felt against his uncle, nor, on the other hand, did 
he conceive that he had a right to forbid respect to th# 
dead, though he might reject service for the survivor. 
Since Mr. Blackwell’s visit, he had remained in a sort of 
apathy or torpor which seemed to the people of the house 
to partake rather of indifference than woe. 

The funeral was over ; and Philip had returned to the 
apartments occupied by the deceased ; and now, for the 
first time, he set himself to examine what papers, &c., 
she had left behind. In an old escritoire, he found, first, 
various packets of letters in his father’s handwriting, the 
characters in many of them faded by time. He opened a 
few ; they were the earliest love-letters. He did not 
dare to read above a few lines ; so much did their living 
tenderness and breathing, frank, hearty passion, contrast 
with the fate of the adored one. In those letters, the 
very heart of the writer seemed to beat! How both 
hearts alike were stilled ! And Ghost called vainly 
unto Ghost ! 

He came, at length, to a letter in his mother’s hand, 
addressed to himself, and dated two days before her 
death. He went to the window and gasped in the mists 
of the sultry air for breath. Below, were heard the 
noises of London ; the shrill cries of itinerant venders, the 
rolling carts, the whoop of boys returned for a while from 
school ; amidst all these rose one loud, merry peal of 
laughter, which drew his attention mechanically to the 
spot whence it came ; it was at the threshold of a public- 
house, before which stood the hearse that had conveyed 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


lit 

his mother’s coffin, and the gay undertakers, halting there 
>to refresh themselves. He closed the window with a 
groan, retired to the farthest corner of the room, and 
read as follows : — 

. I 

“ My dearest Philip, — When you read this, I shall 
be no more. You arid poor Sidney will have neither 
father nor mother, nor fortune, nor name. Heaven is 
more just than man, and in Heaven is my hope for you 
You, Philip, are already past childhood ; your nature is 
one formed, I think, to wrestle successfully with the world. 
Guard against your own passions, and you may bid de- 
fiance to the obstacles that will beset your path in life. 
And lately, in our reverses, Philip, you have so subdued 
those passions, so schooled the pride and impetuosity of 
your childhood, that I have contemplated your prospects 
with less fear than I used to do, even when they seemed 
so brilliant. Forgive me, my dear child* if I have con- 
cealed from you my state of health, and if my death be a 
sudden and unlooked-for shock. Do not grieve for me 
too long. For myself, my release is indeed escape from 
the prison-house and the chain — from bodily pain and 
mental torture, which may, I fondly hope, prove some ex- 
piation for the errors of a happier time. For I did err, 
when, even from the least selfish motives, I suffered my 
union with your father to remain concealed, and thus 
ruined the hopes of those who had rights upon me equal 
oven to his. But, 0 Philip ! beware of the first false 
-tops into deceit ; beware, too, of the passions, which do 
15 * 


M 


178 


NIGHT AND MORNING, 


not betray their fruit till years and years after the leaves 
that look so green and the blossoms that seem so fair. 

“ I repeat my solemn injunction — Do not grieve for 
me ; but strengthen your mind and heart to receive the 
charge that I now confide to you — my Sidney, my child, 
your brother ! He is so soft, so gentle ; he has been so 
dependent for very life upon me, and we are parted now 
for the first and last time. He is with strangers ; and — 
and — 0 Philip, Philip ! watch over him for the love you 
bear, not only to him, but to me ! Be to him a father as 
well as a brother. Put your stout heart against the 
world, so that you may screen him, the weak child, from 
its malice. He has not your talents nor strength of 
character ; without you, he is nothing. Live, toil, rise 
for his sake not less than your own. If you knew how 
this heart beats as I write to you, if you could conceive 
what comfort I take for him from my confidence in you, 
you would feel a new spirit — my spirit — my mother- 
spirit of love, and forethought, and vigilance, enter into 
you while you read. See him when I am gone — comfort 
and soothe him. Happily he is too young yet to know 
all his loss ; and do not let him think unkindly of me in 
the days to come, for he is a child now, and they may 
poison his mind against me more easily than they can 
yours. Think, if he is unhappy hereafter, he may forget 
how I loved him, he may curse those who gave him birth. 
Forgive me all this, Philip, my son, and heed it well. 

“ And now, where you find this letter, you will see a 
key ; it opens a well in the bureau in which I have hoarded 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


17 ’) 

my little savings. You will see that I have not die'] in 
poverty. Take what there is ; young as you are, you 
may want it more now than hereafter. But hold it in 
trust for your brother as well as yourself. If he is harshly 
treated (and you will go and see him, and you will re- 
member that he would writhe under what you might 
scarcely feel), or if they overtask him (he is so young to 
work yet), it may find him a home near you. God watch 
over and guard you both 1 You are orphans now. But 
He has told even the orphans to call him ‘ Father ! ’ ” 

When he had read this letter, Philip Morton fell upon 
his knees, and prayed. 


CHAPTER II. 

r ‘ His curse ! Dost comprehend what that word means ? 

Shot from a father’s angry breath.” 

James Shirley: The Brother*. 
♦‘This term is fatal, and affrights me.” — Ibid. 

“Those fond philosophers that magnify 
Our human nature * * * 

Conversed but little with the world — they knew not 
The fierce vexation of community ! ” — Ibid. 

After he had recovered his self-possession, Philip 
opened the well of the bureau, and was astonished and 
affected to find that Catherine had saved more than £100 
Alas ! how much must she have pinched herself to have 
warded this little treasure ! After burning his father’s 


180 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


love-letters, and some other papers, which he deemed 
useless, he made up a little bundle of those trifling effects 
belonging to the deceased, which he valued as memorials 
and relics of her, quitted the apartment, and descended 
to the parlor behind the shop. On the way he met with 
the kind servant, and recalling the grief that she had 
manifested for his mother since he had been in the house, 
he placed two sovereigns in her hand. “And now,” said 
he, as the servant wept while he spoke, — “ now I can 
bear to ask you what I have not before done. How did 
my poor mother die ? Did she suffer much ? — or — 


“ She went off like a lamb, sir,” said the girl, drying 
her eyes. “ You see the gentleman had been with her 
all the day, and she was much more easy and comfortable 
in her mind after he came.” 

“ The gentleman ! Not the gentleman I found here ? ” 

“ Oh, dear no ! Not the pale middle-aged gentleman 
nurse and I saw go down, as the clock struck two. But 
the young, soft-spoken gentleman who came in the morn- 
ing, and said as how he was a relation. He stayed with 
her till she slept ; 'and, when she woke, she smiled in his 
face — I shall never forget that smile — for I was standing 
on the other aide, as it might be here, and the doctor was 
by the window, pouring out the doctor’s stuff in the glass ; 
and so she looked on the young gentleman, and then 
looked round at us all, and shook her head very gently, 
but did not speak. And the gentleman asked her hov 
she felt, and she took both his hands and kissed them : 




NIGHT AND MORNING 181 

and then he put his arms round and raised her up, to take 
the physic like, and she said'then, ‘You will never forget 
them f ’ and he said, ‘Never.’ — I don’t know what that 
meant, sir ! ” 

“Well, well — go on.” 

“And her head fell back on his buzzom, and she looked 

\ 

sc happy ; and, when the doctor came to the bedside, 
she was quite gone.” 

“And the stranger had my post ! No matter; God 
bless him — God bless him. Who was he ? what was his 
name ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir ; he did not say. He stayed after 
the doctor went, and cried very bitterly ; he took on more 
than you did, sir.” 

“Ay.” 

“ And the other gentleman came just as he was a-go- 
ing, and they did not seem to like each other ; for I heard 
him through the wall, as nurse and I were in the next 
room, speak as if he was scolding ; but he did not stay 
long.” 

“And has never been seen since ? ” 

“No, sir ! Perhaps missus can tell you more about 
him. But won’t you take something, sir ? Ho — you look 
so pale.” 

Philip, without speaking, pushed her gently aside, and 
went slowly down the stairs. He entered the parlor, 
where two or three children were seated, playing at 
’ominoes ; he despatched one for their mother, the mis- 

I.— 16 


L82 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


tress of the shop, who came in, and dropped him a 
courtesy, with a very grave, 'sad face, as was proper. 

“ I am going to leave your house, ma’am ; and I wish 
to settle any little arrears of rent, &c.” 

“ 0 sir ! don’t mention it,” said the landlady ; and, as 
she spoke, she took a piece of paper from her bosom, 
very neatly folded, and laid it on the table. “And here, 
sir,” she added, taking from the same depository a card, 
— “ here is the card left by the gentleman who saw to the 
funeral. He called half an hour ago, and bade me say, 
with his compliments, that he would wait on you to- 
morrow at eleven o’clock. So I hope you won’t go yet : 
for I think he means to settle everything for you ; he said 
as much, sir.” 

Philip glanced over the card, and read, “ Mr. George 
Blackwell, Lincoln’s Inn.” His brow grew dark — he let 
the card fall on the ground, put his foot on it with a quiet 
scorn, and muttered to himself, “ The lawyer shall not 
bribe me out of my curse ! ” He turned to the total of 
the bill — not heavy, for poor Catherine had regularly 
defrayed the expense of her scanty maintenance and 
humble lodging — paid the money, and, as the landlady 
wrote the receipt, he asked, “ Who was the gentleman — 
the younger gentleman — who called in the morning o* 
the day my mother died ? ” 

“ Oh, sir ! I am so sorry I did not get ms name. Mr. 
Perkins said that he was some relation. Yery odd he 
has never been since. Bat he’ll be sure to call again 
sir; you had much better stay here.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING, 


183 


“No: it does not signify. All that he could do is 
done. But stay, give him this note, if he should call.’ , 

Philip, taking the pen from the landlady’s hand, hastily 
wrote (while Mrs. Lacy went to bring him sealing-way 
and a light) these words : — , 

“ I cannot guess who you are : they say that you call 
yourself a relation ; that must be some mistake. I knew 
not that my poor mother had relations so kind. But, 
whoever you be, you soothed her last hours — she died in 
your arms; and if ever — years, long years hence — we 
should chance to meet, and I can do anything to aid an- 
other, my blood, and my life, and my heart, and my soul, 
all are slaves to your will. If you be really of her kin- 
dred, I commend to you my brother ; he is at , with 

Mr. Morton. If you can serve him, my mother’s soul 
will watch over you as a guardian angel. As for me, I 
ask no help from any one : I go into the world, and will 
carve out my own way. So much do I shrink from the 
thought of charity from others, that I do not believe I 
could bless you as I do now if your kindness to me did 
not close with the stone upon my mother’s grave. 

“ Philip.” 

He sealed this letter, and gave it to the woman. 

“ Oh, by the by,” said she, “ I had forgot ; the Doctor 
said that if you would send for him, he would be most 
happy to call on you, and give you any advice.” 

“Very w r ell.” 


184 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“And what shall I say to Mr. Blackwell ? ” 

“ That he may tell his employer to remember our last 
interview.” 

With that, Philip took up his bundle and strode from 
the house. He went first to the church-yard, where his 
mother’s remains had been that day interred. It was 
near at hand, a quiet, almost a rural, spot. The gate 
stood ajar, for there was a public path through the church- 
yard, and Philip entered with a noiseless tread. It was 
then near evening ; the sun had broken out from the 
mists of the earlier day, and the westering rays shone 
bright and holy upon the solemn place. 

“ Mother 1 mother ! ” sobbed the orphan, as he fell 
prostrate before that fresh green mound : “ here — here I 
have come to repeat my oath, to swear again that I will 
be faithful to the charge you have intrusted to your 
wretched son ! And at this hour I dare ask if there be 
on this earth one more miserable and forlorn ? ” 

As words to this effect struggled from his lips, a loud, 
shrill voice — the cracked, painful voice of weak age 
wrestling with strong passion, rose close at hand. 

“Away, reprobate! thou art accursed!” 

PhilTp started, and shuddered as if the words were ad- 
dressed to himself, and from the grave. But, as he rose 
on his knee, and tossing the wild hair from his eyes, 
looked confusedly round, he saw, at a short distance, and 
in the shadow of the wall, two forms ; the one, an old 
man with grey hair, who was seated on a crumbling 
wooden tomb, facing the setting sun ; the other, a man 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


185 


apparently yet in the vigor of life, who appeared bent as 
in humble supplication. The old man’s hands were out- 
stretched over the head of the younger, as if suiting 
terrible action to the terrible words, and, after a moment’s 
pause — a moment, but it seemed far longer to Philip — 
there was heard a deep, wild, ghastly howl from a dog 
that cowered at the old man’s feet ; a howl, perhaps, of 
fear at the passion of his master, which the animal might 
associate with danger. 

“ Father 1 father ! ” said the suppliant, reproachfully, 
“your very dog rebukes your curse.” ' 

“ Be dumb ! My dog ! What hast thou left me on 
earth but him ? Thou hast made me loathe the sight of 
friends, for thou hast made me loathe mine own name. 
Thou hast covered it with disgrace, — thou hast turned 
mine old age into a by-word, — thy crimes leave me soli- 
tary in the midst of my shame ! ” 

“ It is many years since we met, father ; we may never 
meet again — shall we part thus ? ” 

“ Thus , aha ! ” said the old man, in a tone of wither- 
ing sarcasm : “ I comprehend, — you are come for money !” 

At this taunt the son started as if stung by a serpent ; 
raised his head to its full height, folded his arms, and 
replied, — 

“ Sir, you wrong me : for more than twenty years I 
have maintained myself — no matter how, but without 
taxing you — and now, I felt remorse for having suffered 
you to discard me, — now, when you are old and helpless, 
and, I heard, blind : and you might want aid, even from 
16 * 


186 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 




your poor, good-for-nothing son. But I Lave done. 
Forget — not my sins, but this interview. Repeal your 
curse, father, I have enough on my head without yours ; 
and so — let the son at least bless the father who curses 
him. Farewell ! ” 

The speaker turned as he thus said, with a voice that 
trembled at the close, and brushed rapidly by Philip, 
whom he did not, however, appear to perceive ; but 
Philip, by the last red beam of the sun, saw again that 
marked storm-beaten face which it was difficult, once 
seen, to forget; and recognised the stranger, on whose 
breast he had slept the night of his fatal visit to R . 

The old man’s imperfect vision did not detect the 
departure of his son, but his face changed and softened 
as the latter strode silently through the rank grass. 

“ William ! ” he said at last, gently ; “ William ! ” and 
the tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks ; “ my son ! ” 
but that son was gone — the old man listened for reply 
— none came. “ He has left me — poor William I — we 
shall never meet again ; ” and he sank once more on the 
old tombstone, dumb, rigid, motionless — an image of 
Time himself in his own domain of Graves. The dog 
crept closer to his master, and licked his hand. Philip 
stood for a moment in thoughtful silence : his exclamation 
of despair had been answered as by his better angel. 
The*e was a being more miserable than himself; and the 
Accursed would have envied the Bereaved ! 

The twilight had closed in ; the earliest star — the star 
of Memory and Love, the Hesperus hymned by every 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


181 


poet since the world began — was fair in the arch of 
heaven, as Philip quitted the spot, with a spirit more 
reconciled to the future, more softened, chastened, attuneo 
to gentle and pioas thoughts, than perhaps ever jet had 
made his soul dominant over the deep and dark tide of 
his gloom j passions. He went thence to a neighboring 
sculptor, and paid beforehand for a plain tablet to be 
placed above the grave he had left. He had just quitted 
that shop, in the same street, not many doors removed 
from the house in which his mother had breathed her last. 
He was pausing by a crossing, irresolute whether to 
repair at once to the home assigned to Sidney, or to seek 
some shelter in town for that night, when three men who 
were on the opposite side of the way suddenly caught 
sight of him. 

“ There he is — there he is ; stop, sir ! — stop ! ” 

Philip heard these words, looked up and recognized the 
voice and the person of Mr. Plaskwith ; the bookseller 
was accompanied by Mr. Plimmins and a sturdy, ill- 
favored stranger. 

A nameless feeling of fear, rage, and disgust seized the 
Tirhappy boy, and at the same moment a ragged vaga- 
Dond whispered to him, “ Stump it, my cove ; that’s a 
Bow Street runner.” 

Then there shot through Philip’s mind the recollection 
of the money he had seized, though but to dash away : 
was he now — he, still to his own conviction, the heir of 
an ancient and spotless name — to be hunted as a thief; 
or, at the best, what right over his person and his liberty 


188 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


bad he given to his taskmaster ? Ignorant of the law — 
the law only seemed to him, as it ever does to the 
ignorant and the friendless — a Foe. Quicker than 
lightning these thoughts, which it takes so many words 
to describe, flashed through the storm and darkness of 
his breast ; and at the very instant that Mr. Plimmins 
had laid hands on his shoulder his resolution was formed. 
The instinct of self beat loud at his heart. With a bound 
— a spring that sent Mr. Plimmins sprawling in the 
kennel, he darted across the road, and fled down an 
opposite lane. 

“ Stop him ! stop ! ” cried the bookseller, and the officer 
rushed after him with almost equal speed. Lane after 
lane, alley after alley, fled Philip; dodging, winding, 
breathless, panting ; and lane after lane, alley after alley 
thickened at his heels the crowd that pursued. The idle 
and the curious, and the officious, — ragged boys, ragged 
men, from stall and from cellar, from corner and from 
crossing, joined in that delicious chase, which runs down 
young Error till it sinks, too often, at the door of the 
gaol or the foot of the gallows. But Philip slackened 
not his pace ; he began to distance his pursuers. He 
was now in a street which they had not yet entered — a 
quiet street, with few, if any, shops. Before the threshold 
of a better kind of public-house, or rather tavern, to judge 
by its appearance, lounged two men ; and while Philip 
flew on, the cry of “ Stop him ! ” had changed as the 

shout passed to new voices, into “Stop the thief!” 

that cry yet howled in the distance. One of the loungers 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


189 


seized him : Philip, desperate and ferocious, struck at* 
him with all his force ; but the blow was scarcely felt by 
that Herculean frame. 

“ Pish I.” said the man scornfully ; “I am no spy ; if 
you run from justice, I would help you to a sign-post.” 

Struck by the voice, Philip looked hard at the speaker. 
It was the voice of the Accursed Son. 

“Save me! you remember me? v said the orphan, 
faintly. 

“Ah ! I think I do ; poor lad ! Follow me — this way ! ” 

The stranger turned within the tavern, passed the hall 
through a sort of corrider that led into a back-yard which 
opened upon a nest of courts or passages. 

“You are safe for the present ; I will take you where 
you can tell me all at your ease — See ! ” As he spoke 
they emerged into an open street, and the guide pointed 
to a row of hackney-coaches. “Be quick — get in. 

Coachman, drive fast to Philip did not hear the 

rest of the direction. 

Our story returns to Sidney. 


m 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER III. 

“Nous vous mettrons a couvert 
Repondit le pot de fer: 

Si quelque matifcre dure 
Vous menace d’aventure, 

Entre deux je passerai, 

Et du coup vous sauverai 
* * * * 

Le pot de terre en souffre!” — L a Fontaine.* 

“ Sidney, come here, sir ! What have you been at ? 
you have torn your frill into tatters ! How did you do 
this? Come, sir, no lies. 

“ Indeed, ma’am, it was not my fault. I just put my 
head out of the window to see the coach go by, and a 
nail caught me here.” 

“ Why, you little plague ! you have scratched yourself 
— you are always in mischief. What business had you to 
look after the coach ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Sidney, hanging his head ruefully. 

“ La, mother ! ” cried the youngest of the cousins, a 
square-built, ruddy, coarse-featured urchin, about Sidney’s 
age, — “ La, mother, he never see a coach in the street 
when we are at play but he runs arter it.” 

* We, replied the Iron Pot, will shield you: should any hard 
substance menace you with danger, I’ll intervene, and save you 
from the shock * * * The Earthen Pot was the sufferer ! 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


191 


“After, not arter,” said Mr. Roger Morton, taking the 
pipe from his mouth. 

“Why do you go after the coaches, Sidney?” said 
Mrs. Morton ; “it is very naughty ; you will be run over 
some day.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sidney, who during the whole 
colloquy had been trembling from head to foot. 

“‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘no ma’am:’ you have no more 
manners than a cobbler’s boy.” 

“ Don’t tease the child, my dear ; he is crying,” said 
Mr. Morton, more authoritatively than usual. “ Come 
here, my man 1 ” and the worthy uncle took him in his lap 
and held his glass of brandy-and-water to his lips ; Sid- 
ney, too frightened to refuse, sipped hurriedly, keeping 
his large eyes fixed on his aunt, as children do when they 
fear a cuff. 

“ Y ou spoil the boy more than you do your own flesh 
and blood,” said Mrs. Morton, greatly displeased. 

Here Tom, the youngest-born before described, put his 
mouth to his mother’s ear, and whispered loud enough to 
be heard by all, — “He runs arter the coach ’cause he 
thinks his ma may be in it. Who’s home-sick, I should 
like to know ? Ba I Baa ! ” 

The boy pointed his finger over his mother’s shoulder, 
and the other children burst into a loud giggle. 

“ Leave the room, all of you, — leave the room ! ” said 
Mr. Morton, rising angrily, and stamping his foot. 

The children, who were in great awe of their ^father, 
huddled and hustled each other to the door ; but Tom, 


i. 92 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

who went last, bold in his mother’s favor, popped his 
head through the door-way, and cried, “ Good bye, little 
home-sick 1 ” 

A sudden slap in the face from his father changed his 
chuckle into a very different kind of music, and a loud 
indignant sob was heard without for some moments after 
the door was closed. 

“ If that’s the way you behave to your children, Mr. 
Morton, I vow you sha’n’t have any more if I can help 
it. Don’t come near me — don’t touch me 1 ” and Mrs. 
Morton assumed the resentful air of offended beauty. 

“ Pshaw ! ” growled the spouse, and he reseated him- 
self and resumed his pipe. There was a dead silence. 
Sidney crouched near his uncle, looking very pale. Mrs. 
Morton, who was knitting, knitted away with the excited 
energy of nervous irritation. 

“Ring the bell, Sidney,” said Mr. Morton. The boy 
obeyed — the parlor-maid entered. “ Take Master Sidney 
to his room ; keep the boys aw r ay from him, and give him 
a large slice of bread and jam, Martha.” 

“Jam, indeed! — treacle,” said Mrs. Morton. 

“Jam, Martha!” repeated the uncle, authoritatively. 

“ Treacle ! ” reiterated the aunt. 

“ Jam, I say ! ” 

“ Treacle, you hear : and for that matter, Martha has 
no jam to give ! ” 

The husband had nothing more to say. 

“ Good night, Sidney ; there’s a good boy ; go and 
kiss your aunt and make your bow ; and I say, my lad, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


193 


don’t mind those plagues. I’ll talk to them to-morrow, 
that I will ; no one shall be unkind to you in my house.” 

Sidney muttered something, and went timidly up to 
Mrs. Morton. His look so gentle^and subdued ; his eyes 
full of tears; his pretty mouth which, though silent, 
pleaded so eloquently ; his willingness to forgive, and his 
wish to be forgiven, might have melted many a heart 
harder, perhaps, than Mrs. Morton’s. But there reigned 
what are worse than hardness, — prejudice and wounded 
vanity — maternal vanity. His contrast to her own rough, 
coarse children, grated on her, and set the teeth of her 
mind on edge. 

“ There, child, don’t tread on my gown ; you are so 
awkward : say your prayers, and don’t throw off the 
counterpane ! I don’t like slovenly boys.” 

Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped, and van- 
# # 

ished. 

“ Now, Mrs. M.,” said Mr. Morton abruptly, and 
knocking out the ashes of his pipe ; “now Mrs. M., one 
word for all : I have told you that I promised poor Ca- 
therine to be a father to that child, and it goes to my 
heart to see him so snubbed. Why you dislike him I 
can’t guess for the life of me. I never saw a sweeter- 
tempered child.” 

. “ Go on, sir, — go on : make your personal reflections 
on your own lawful wife. They don’t hurt me — oh no, 
not at all ! Sweet-tempered, indeed ; I suppose your 
•own children are not sweet-tempered ? ” 

“ That’s neither here nor there,” said Mr. Morton: 
I. — It 


194 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ my own children are such as God made them, and I am 
very well satisfied.’’ 

“ Indeed you may be proud of such a family ; and to 
think of the pains I have taken with them, and how I 
have saved you in nurses, and the bad times I have had ; 
and now, to find their noses put out of joint by that little 
mischief-making interloper — it is too bad of you, Mr. 
Morton ; you will break my heart — that you will ! ” 

Mrs. Morton put her handkerchief to her eyes and 
sobbed. 

The husband was moved : he got up and attempted to 
take her hand. “ Indeed, Margaret, I did not mean to 
vex you.” 

“And I who have been such a fa — fai — faithful wi — wi 
— wife, and brought you such a deal of mon — mon — 
money, and always stud — stud — studied your interests; 
many’s the time when you have been fast asleep, that I 
have sat up half the night men — men — mending the 
house linen ; and you have not been the same man, Ro- 
ger, since that boy came 1 ” 

“ Well, well ! ” said the good man, quite overcome, 
i ud fairly taking her round the waist and kissing her ; 
“ no words between us ; it makes life quite unpleasant. 
If it pains you to have Sidney here, I will put him to 
some school in the town, where they’ll be kind to him. 
Only, if you would, Margaret, for my sake — old girl ! 
30 rue, now! there’s a darling! — just be more tender 
with him. You see he frets so after his mother. Think 
how little Tom would fret if he was away from you ! 
Poor little Tom ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


195 


“ La ! Mr. Morton, you are such a man ! — there’s no 
resisting your ways ! You know how to come over me, 
— don’t you ? ” 

And Mrs. Morton smiled benignly, as she escaped from 
his conjugal arms and smoothed her cap. 

Peace thus restored, Mr. Morton refilled his pipe, and 
;he good lady, after a pause, resumed, in a very mild, 
conciliatory tone, — 

“I’ll tell you what it is, Roger, that vexes me with 
that there child. He is so deceitful, and he does tell 
such fibs ! ” 

“ Fibs ! that is a very bad fault,” said Mr. Morton, 
gravely. “ That must be corrected.” 

“ It was but the other day that I saw him break a pane 
of glass in the shop ; and when I taxed him with it, he 
denied it ; * — and with such a face ! I can’t abide story- 
telling.” 

“ Let me know the next story he tells ; I’ll cure him,” 
said Mr. Morton, sternly. “You know how I broke 
Tom of it. Spare the rod and spoil the child. And 
when I promised to be kind to the boy, of course I did 
not mean that I was not to take care of his morals, and 
see that he grew up an honest man. Tell truth and 
shame the devil — that’s my motto.” 

“ Spoke like yourself, Roger ! ” said Mrs. Morton, with 
great animation. “ But you see he has not had the ad- 
vantage of such a father as you. I wonder your sister 
don’t write to you. Some people make a great f uss 
about their feelings ; but out of sight out of mind.” 


196 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ I hope she is not ill. Poor Catherine ! she looked 
in a very bad way when she was here,” said Mr. Morton ; 
and he turned uneasily to the fireplace and sighed. 

Here the servant entered with the supper-tray, and the 
conversation fell upon other topics. 

Mrs. Roger Morton’s charge against Sidney was, alas I 
too true. He had acquired, under that roof, a terrible 
habit of telling stories. He had never incurred that vice 
with his mother, because then and there he had nothing 
to fear ; now, he had everything to fear ; — the grim 
aunt — even the quiet, kind, cold, austere uncle — the 
apprentices — the strange servants — and, oh ! more than 
all, those hard-eyed, loud-laughing tormentors, the boys 
of his own age ! Naturally timid, severity made him 
actually a coward ; and when the nerves tremble, a lie 
sounds as surely as, when I vibrate that wire, the bell at 
the end of it will ring. Beware of the man who has been 
roughly treated as a child. 

The day after the conference just narrated, Mr. Mor- 
ton, who was subject to erysipelas, had taken a little 
cooling medicine. He breakfasted, therefore, later than 

usual — after the rest of the family ; and at this meal 

pour lui soulager — he ordered the luxury of a muffin. 
Now it so chanced, that he had only finished half the 
muffin, and drunk one cup of tea, when he was called 
into the shop by a customer of great importance, — a 
pro^y old lady, who always gave her orders with remark- 
able precision, and who valued herself on a character for 
affability, which she maintained by never buying a pennv 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 191 

riband without asking the shopman how all his family 
were, and talking news about every other family in the 
place. At the time Mr. Morton left the parlor, Sidney, 
and Master Tom were therein, seated on two stools, and 
casting up division sums on their respective slates — a 
point of education to which Mr. Morton attended with 
great care. As soon as his father’s back was turned, 
Master Tom’s eyes wandered from the slate to the muffin, 
as it leered at him from the slop-basin. Never did 
Pythian sibyl, seated above the bubbling spring, utter 
more oracular eloquence to her priest, than did that 
muffin — at least the parts of it yet extant — utter to the 
fascinated senses of Master Tom. First he sighed ; then 
he moved round on his stool ; then he got up ; then he 
peered at the muffin from a respectful distance ; then he 
gradually approached, and walked round, and round, and 
round it — his eyes getting bigger and bigger ; then he 
peeped through the glass-door into the shop, and saw 
his father busily engaged with the old lady ; then he be- 
gan to calculate and philosophise, — perhaps his father 
had done breakfast ; perhaps he would not come back at 
all ; if he came back, he would not miss one corner of the 
muffin ; and if he did miss it, why should Tom be sup- 
posed to have taken it ? As he thus communed with 
himself, he drew nearer into the fatal vortex, and at last, 
with a desperate plunge, he seized the triangular tempta- 
tion : 

“And ere a man had power to say ‘Behold!’ 

The jaws of Thomas had devoured it up,” 


11 * 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


198 

Sidney, disturbed from his studies by the agitation of 
his companion, witnessed this proceeding with great and 
conscientious alarm. “ 0 Tom ! ” said he, what will, 
your papa say ? ” 

“ Look at that ! ” said Tom, putting his fist under 
Sidney’s reluctant nose. “ If father misses it, you’ll say 
the cat took it. If you don’t — my eye ! what a wapping 
I’ll give you 1 ” 

Here Mr. Morton’s voice was heard, wishing the lady 
“ Good morning ! ” and Master Tom, thinking it better 
to leave the credit of the invention solely to Sidney, 
whispered — “Say I’m gone up-stairs for my pocket- 
hanker,” and hastily absconded, 

Mr. Morton, already in a very bad humor, partly at 
the effects of the cooling medicine, partly at the suspen- 
sion of his breakfast, stalked into the parlor. His tea — 
the second cup already poured out — was cold. He 
turned towards the muffin, and missed the lost piece at a 
glance. 

“Who has been at my muffin?” said he, in a voice 
that seemed to Sidney like the voice he had always sup- 
posed an ogre to possess. “ Have you, Master Sidney ?” 

“N — n — no, sir; indeed, sir!” 

“ Then Tom has. Where is he ? ” 

“Gone up-stairs for his handkerchief, sir. ,? 

“ Did he take my muffin ? Speak the truth ! ” 

“ No, sir ; it was the — it was the — the cat, sir ! ” 

“ 0 you wicked, wicked boy ! ” cried Mrs. Morton, who 
had followed her husband into the shop ; “ the cat kit- 
tened last night, and is locked up in the coal-cellar ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


199 


“Come here, Master Sidney! No! — first go down, 
Margaret, and see if the cat is in the cellar : it might 
have got out, Mrs. M.,” said Mr. Morton, just even in 
his wrath. 

Mrs. Morton went, and there was a dead silence, ex- 
cept indeed in Sidney’s heart which beat louder than a 
clock ticks. Mr. Morton, meanwhile, went to a little 
cupboard ; — while still there, Mrs. Morton returned ; 
the cat was in the cellar — the key turned on her — in no 
mood to eat muffins, poor thing ! — she would not even 
lap her milk ! — like her mistress, she had had a very bad 
time 1 

“ Now come here, sir ! ” said Mr. Morton, withdrawing 
himself from the cupboard, with a small horsewhip in his 
hand, “ I will teach you how to speak the truth in future ! 
Confess that you have told a lie ! ” 

“ Yes, sir, it was a lie ! Pray — pray forgive me ; but 
Tom made me ! ” 

“ What ! when poor Tom is up-stairs ? worse and 
worse ! ” said Mrs. Morton, lifting up her hands and eyes. 
“ What a viper ! ” 

“ For shame, boy, — for shame I Take that — and that 
. — and that ” 

Writhing — shrinking, still more terrified than hurt, the 
poor child cowered beneath the lash. 

“ Mamma ! — mamma ! ” he cried at last, “ Oh why — 
why did you leave me ? ” 

At these words Mr. Morton stayed his hand, the whip 
fell to the ground. 


200 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Yet it is all for the boy’s good,” he muttered. “ There, 
cnild, I hope this is the last time. There, you are not 
much hurt. Zounds, don’t cry so ! ” 

“He will alarm the whole street,” said Mrs. Morton ; 
“ I never see such a child ! Here, take this parcel to Mrs. 
Birnie’s — you know the house — only next street, and dry 
your eyes before you get there. Don’t go through the 
shop; this way out.” 

She pushed the child, still sobbing with a vehemence 
that she could not comprehend, through the private pas- 
sage into the street, and returned to her husband. 

“You are convinced now, Mr. M.?” 

“ Pshaw ! ma’am ; don’t talk. But, to be sure, that’s 
how I cured Tom of fibbing. — The tea’s as cold as a 
stone ! ” 


CHAPTER IY. 

‘ Le bien nous le faisons : le mal c’est la Fortune. 

On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort.” * 

La Fontaine. 

Upon the early morning of the day commemorated by the 
historical events of our last chapter, two men were deposi- 
ted by a branch coach at the inn of a hamlet about ten 
miles distant from the town in which Mr. Roger Morton 

* The Good, we effect ourselves; the Evil is the handiwork of 
Fortune. Mortals are always in the right, Destiny always in the 
wrong. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


201 


resided. Though the hamlet was small, the inn was large, 
for it was placed close by a huge finger-post that pointed 
to three great roads : one led to the town before men- 
tioned ; another, to the heart of a manufacturing district ; 
and a third, to a populous sea-port. The weather was fine, 
and the two travellers ordered breakfast to be taken into 
an arbor in the garden, as well as the basins and towels 
necessary for ablution. The elder of the travellers ap- 
peared to be unequivocally foreign ; you would have 
guessed him at once for a German. He wore, what was 
then very uncommon in this country, a loose, brown linen 
blouse, buttoned to the chin, with a leathern belt, into 
which were stuck a German meerschaum and a tobacco- 
pouch. He had very long flaxen hair, false or real, that 
streamed half-way down his back, large light mustaches, 
and a rough, sunburnt complexion, which made the fair- 
ness of the hair more remarkable. He wore an enormous 
pair of green spectacles, and complained much, in broken 
English, of the weakness of his eyes. All about him, even 
to the smallest minutiae, indicated the German ; not only 
the large muscular frame, the broad feet, and vast though 
well-shaped hands, but the brooch — evidently purchased 
of a Jew in some great fair — stuck ostentatiously ana 
superfluously into his stock ; the quaint, droll-looking car- 
pet bag, which he refused to trust to the boots ; and the 
great, massive, dingy ring which he wore on his forefinger. 
The other was a slender, remarkably upright and sinewy 
youth, in a blue frock, over which was thrown a large 
cloak, a travelling cap, with a shade that concealed all ol 
17 * 


202 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the upper part of his face, except a dark quick eye, of 
uncommon fire, and a shawl handkerchief, which was 
equally useful in concealing the lower part of the counte- 
nance. On descending from the coach, the German, with 
some difficulty, made the ostler understand that he wanted 
a post-chaise in a quarter of an hour ; and then, without 
entering the house, he and his friend strolled to the 
arbor. While the maid-servant was covering the table 
with bread, butter, tea, eggs, and a huge round of beef, 
the German was busy in washing his hands, and talking 
in his national tongue to the young man, who returned 
no answer. But as soon as the servant had completed 
her operations, the foreigner turned round, and observing 
her eyes fixed on his brooch with much female admiration, 
he made one stride to her. 

“ Der Teufel, my goot Madchen — but you are von 
var — pretty — vat you call it ; ” and he gave her, as he 
spoke, so hearty a smack that the girl was more flustered 
than flattered by the courtesy. 

“ Keep yourself to yourself, sir ! ” said she, very tartly, 
— for chambermaids never like to be kissed by a middle* 
aged gentleman when a younger one is by : whereupon 
the German replied by a pinch, — it is immaterial to state 
the exact spot to which that delicate caress was directed. 
But this last offence was so inexpiable, that the “ madchen’ 
bounced off with a face of scarlet, and a “ Sir, you are no 
gentleman — that’s what you arn’t ! ” The German thrust 
his head out of the arbor, and followed her with a loud 
laugh; th6n, drawing himself in again, he said, in quite 


NIGHT AND MORNIN 3. 


203 


another accent, and in excellent English, “ There, Master 
Philip, we have got rid of the girl for the rest of the 
morning, and that’s exactly what I wanted to do — 
women’s wits are confoundedly sharp. Well, did I not 
tell you right, we have baffled all the bloodhounds ! ” 

“ And here, then, Gawtrey, we are to part,” said Philip, 
mournfully. 

“ I wish you would think better of it, my boy,” returned 
Mr. Gawtrey, breaking an egg; “how can you shift for 
yourself — no kith nor kin, not even that important 
machine for giving advice called a friend — no, not a 
friend, when I am gone ? I foresee how it must end. 
[D it, salt butter, by Jove!”] 

“ If I were alone in the world, as I have told you again 
and again, perhaps I might pin my fate to yours. But 
my brother ! ” 

“ There it is, always wrong when we act from our feel- 
ings. My whole life, which some day or other I will tell 
you, proves that. Your brother — bah! is he not very 
well off with his own uncle and aunt ! — plenty to eat 
and drink, I dare say. Come, man, you must be as 
hungry as a hawk — a slice of the beef? Let well alone, 
and shift for yourself. What good can you do your 
brother ? ” 

“ I don’t know, but I must see him ; I have sworn it.” 

“Well, go and see him, and then strike across the 
country to me. I will' wait a day for you, — there, now ! ” 

“But tell me first,” said Philip, very earnestly, and 
fixing his dark eyes on his companion, — “tell me — yes, 


204 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


I must ,peak frankly — tell me, you who would link my 
fortune with your own, — tell me, what and who are you ? ” 

Gawtrey looked up. 

“ What do you suppose ? ” said he, drily. 

“ I fear to suppose anything, lest I wrong you : but the 
strange place to which you took me the evening on which 
you saved me from pursuit, the persons I met there ” 

“Well-dressed, and very civil to you?” 

“ True 1 but with a certain wild looseness in their talk 
that — — - . But / have no right to judge others by mere 
appearance. Nor is it this that has made me anxious, 
and, if you will, suspicious.” 

What then ? ” 

Your dress — your disguise.” 

Disguised yourself! — ha ! ha ! — Behold the world’s 
charity! You fly from some danger, some pursuit, dis- 
guised — you, who hold yourself guiltless — I do the 
same, and you hold me criminal — a robber, perhaps — 
a murderer it may be ! I will tell you what I am : I am 
a son of Fortune, an adventurer ; I live by my wits — so 
do poets and lawyers, and all the charlatans of the world ; 
I am a charlatan — a chameleon. ‘ Each man in his time 
plays many parts ; 1 1 play any part in which Money, the 
Arch-Manager, promises me a livelihood. Are you 
satisfied ? ” 

“ Perhaps,” answered the boy, sadly, “ when I know 
more of the world, I shall understand you better. Strange 
— strange, that you, out of all men, should have been 
kind to me in distress 1 ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


205 


“Not at all strange. Ask the beggar whom he gets 
the most pence from — the fine lady in her carriage — the 
beau smelling of Eau de Cologne ? Pish ! the people 
nearest to being beggars themselves keep the beggar 
alive. You were friendless, and the man who has all 
earth for a foe befriends you. It-is the way of the^world, 
sir, — the way of the world. Come, eat while you can, 
this time next year you may have no beef to your bread.” 

Thus masticating and moralising at the same time, Mr. 
Gawtrey at last finished a breakfast that would have 
astonished the whole Corporation of London ; and then 
taking out a large old watch, with an enamelled back — 
doubtless, more German than its master — he said, as he 
lifted up his carpet-bag, “I must be off — tempus fugit, 
and I must arrive just in time to nick the vessels. Shall 
get to Ostend, or Botlerdam, safe and snug ; thence to 
Paris. How my pretty Fan will have grown 1 Ah, you 
don’t know Fan — make you a nice little wife one of these 
days ! Cheer up, man, we shall meet again. Be sure 
of it ; and hark ye, that strange place, as you call it, 
where I took you, — you can find it again?” 

“Not I.” 

“ Here, then, is the address. Whenever you want me, 
go there, ask to see Mr. Gregg — old fellow with one eye, 
you recollect — shake him by the hand just so — you 
catch the trick — practise it again. No, the forefinger 
ihus, that’s right. Say ‘ blater,’ no more — ‘ blater ; ’ — 
stay, I will write it down for you ; and then ask for 
William Gawtrey’s direction. He will give it you at 
I —18 


206 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


once, without questions — these signs understood ; and 
if you want money for your passage, he will give you that 
also, with, advice into the bargain. Always a warm wel- 
come with me. And so take care of yourself, and good- 
bye. I see my chaise is at the door.” 

' As he spoke, Gawtrey shook the young man’s hand 
with cord.ia*. vigor, and strode off to his chaise, muttering, 
— “ Money well laid out — fee money ; I shall have him, 
and, Gad, I like him, — poor devil 1 ” 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ He is a cunning coachman that can turn well in a narrow room.” 

Old Play ; from Lamb’s Specimens. 

“ Here are two pilgrims, 

And neither knows one footstep of the way.” 

Heywood’s Duchess of Suffolk. Ibid. 

The chaise had scarce driven from the inn-door, when 
a coach stopped to change horses on its last stage to the 
town to which Philip was bound. The name of the 
destination, in gilt letters on the coach-door, caught his 
eye, as he walked from the arbor towards the road, and 
in a few moments he was seated as the fourth passenger 
in the “Nelson Slow and Sure.” From under .the shade 
of his cap, he darted that quick, quiet glance, which a 
man who hunts, or is hunted, — in other words, who ob- 
serves, or shuns, — soon acquires. At his left hand sat a 
you nn* woman in a cloak lined with yellow; she had 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


‘207 


taken off her bonnet and pinned it to the roof of the 
coach, and looked fresh and pretty in a silk handkerchief, 
which she had tied round her head, probably to serve as 
a night-cap during the drowsy length of the journey 
Opposite to her was a middle-aged man of pale com- 
plexion, and a grave, pensive, studious expression of 
face ; and vis-a-vis to Philip sat an over-dressed, showy, 
very good-looking man of about two or three-and-forty. 
This gentleman wore auburn whiskers, which met at the 
chin ; a foraging cap, with a gold tassel ; a velvet waist- 
coat, across which, in various folds, hung a golden chain, 
at the end of which dangled an eye-glass, that from time 
to time he screwed, as it were, into his right eye ; he 
wore, also, a blue silk stock, with a frill much crumpled ; 
dirty kid gloves, and over his lap lay a cloak lined with 
red silk. As Philip glanced towards this personage, the 
latter fixed his glass also at him, with a scrutinising 
stare, which drew fire from Philip’s dark eyes. The man 
dropped his glass, and said in a half provincial, half 
haw-haw tone, like the stage-exquisite of a minor theatre, 
“Pawdon me, and split legs!” therewith stretching him- 
self between Philip’s limbs, in the approved fashion of 
inside passengers. A young man in a white great-coat 
now came to the door with a glass of warm sherry and 
water. 

“You must take this — you must now; it will keep 
the cold out,” (the day was broiling,) said he to the 
young woman. 

“ Gracious me ! ” was the answer, “but I never drink 
wine of a morning, James; it will get into my head.” 


308 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ To oblige me ! ” said the young man, sentimentally ; 
whereupon the young lady took the glass, and looking 
very kindly at her Ganymede, said, “ Your health l 77 and 
sipped, and made a wry face — then she looked at the 
passengers, tittered, and said, “ I can’t bear wine ! ” and 
so, very slowly and daintily, sipped up the rest. A silent 
and expressive squeeze of the hand, on returning the 
glass, rewarded the young man, and proved the salutary 
effect of his prescription. 

“All right 1 ” cried the coachman : the ostler twitched 
the cloths from the leaders, and away went the “Nelson 
Slow and Sure,” with as much pretension as if it had 
meant to do the ten miles in an hour. The pale gentle- 
man took from his waistcoat-pocket a little box contain- 
ing gum-arabic, and having inserted a couple of morsels 
between his lips, he next drew forth a little thin volume, 
which from the manner the lines were printed was evi- 
dently devoted to poetry. 

The smart gentleman, who since the episode of the 
sherry and water had kept his glass fixed upon the young 
lady, now said, with a genteel smirk, — “That young 
gentleman seems very auttentive, miss ! ” 

“ He is a very good young man, sir, and takes great 
pare of me.” 

“ Not your brother, miss, — eh ? 7 

“ La, sir ! — why not ? ” 

“No faumily likeness — noice-looking fellow enough 1 
But your oiyes and mouth — ah, miss ! ” 

Miss turned away her head, and uttered with per<, 
vivacity — % 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 201J 

“ I never likes compliments, sir ! But the young man 
is not my brother.” 

‘‘A sweetheart, — eh ? Oh fie, miss ! Haw ! haw I ” 
and the auburn-whiskered Adonis poked Philip in the 
knee with one hand, and the pale gentleman in the ribs 
with the other. The latter looked up, and reproachfully ; 
the former drew in his legs, and uttered an angry ejacu- 
lation. 

“ Well, sir, there is no harm in a sweetheart, is there ?” 

“None in the least, ma’am ; I advoise you to double 
the dose. We often hear of two strings to a bow. 
Daun’t you think it would be noicer to have two beaux 
to your string ? ” 

As he thus wittily expressed himself, the gentleman 
took olf his cap, and thrust his fingers through a very 
curling and comely head of hair ; the young lady looked 
at him with evident coquetry, and said, “ How you do 
run on, you gentlemen ! ” 

“ I may well run on, miss, as long as I run aufter you,” 
was the gallant reply. 

Here the pale gentleman, evidently annoyed by being 
talked across, shut his book up, and looked round. His 
eye rested on Philip, who, whether from the heat of the 
day or from the forgetfulness of thought, had pushed his 
cap from his brows ; and the gentleman, after staring at 
him for a few moments with great earnestness, sighed so 
heavily that it attracted the notice of all the passengers 

“Are you unwell, sir ? ” asked the young lady, com- 
passionately. 

18 * 


o 


210 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

' “A little pain in my side, nothing more ! ” 

“ Chaunge plauces with me, sir,” cried the Lothario, 
officiously. “Now do!” The pale gentleman, after a 
short hesitation, and a bashful excuse, accepted the pro- 
posal. In a few moments the young lady and the beau 
were in deep and whispered conversation, their heads 
turned towards the window. The pale gentleman con- 
tinued to gaze at Philip, till the latter, perceiving the 
notice he excited, colored, and replaced his cap over his 
face. 

“Are you going to N ? ” asked the gentleman, in 

a gentle, timid voice. 

“ Yes ! ” 

“ Is it the first time you have ever been there ? ” 

“ Sir 1 ” returned Philip, in a voice that spoke surprise 
and distaste at his neighbor's curiosity. 

“Forgive me,” said the gentleman, shrinking back; 
“but you remind me of — of — a family I once knew in the 
town. Do you know — the — the Mortons?” 

One in Philip’s situation, with, as he supposed, the 
officers of justice in his track, (for Gawtrey, for reasons 
of his own, rather encouraged than allayed his fears,) 
might well be suspicious. He replied, therefore, shortly, 
“ I am quite a stranger to the town,” and ensconced him- 
sell in the corner, as if to take a nap. Alas ! that answer 
was cne of the many obstacles he was doomed to build 
up between himself and a fairer fate. 

The gentleman sighed again, and never spoke more to 
the end of the journey. When the coach halted at the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


211 


inn — the same inn which had before given its shelter to' 
poor Catherine — the young man in the white coat opened 
the door, and offered his arm to the young lady. 

“ Do you make any stay here, sir ? ” said she to the 
beau, as she unpinned her bonnet from the roof. 

“ Perhaps so ; I am waiting for my phe-aton, which 
my faellow is to bring down — tauking a little tour.” 

“We shall be very happy to see you, sir,” said the 
young lady, on whom the phe-aton completed the effect 
produced by the gentleman’s previous gallantries; and 
with that she dropped into his hand a very neat card, on 
which was printed, “Wavers and Snow, Staymakers, 
High Street.” 

The beau put the card gracefully into his pocket — 
leaped from the coach — nudged aside his rival of the 
white coat, and offered his arm to the lady, who leaned 
on it affectionately as she descended. * 

“ This gentleman has been so perlite to me, James,” 
said she. James touched his hat ; the beau clapped him 
on the shoulder — “Ah ! you are not a hauppy man — are 
you 1 Oh no, not at all a hauppy man ! — Good day to 
you I Guard, that hat-box is mine ! ” 

While Philip was paying the coachman, the beau 
passed, and whispered him — 

“Recollect old Gregg — anything on the lay hert — 
don’t spoil my sport if we meet!” and bustled off into 
the inn, whistling “God save the king!” 

Philip started, then tried to bring to mind the faces 
which he had seen at the “ strange place,” and thought 


21^ NIGHT AND MOTtNING. 

he recalled the features of his fellow-traveller. However, 
he did not seek to renew the acquaintance, but inquired 
the way to Mr. Morton’s house, and thither he now pro- 
ceeded. 

He was directed, as a short cut, down one of those 
narrow passages at the entrance of which posts are placed, 
as an indication that they are appropriated solely to foot- 
passengers. A dead white wall, which screened the 
garden of the physician of the place, ran on one side ; a 
high fence to a nursery- ground was on the other ; the 
passage was lonely, for it was now the hour when few 
persons walk either for business or pleasure in a provin- 
cial town, and no sound was heard save the fall of his 
own step on the broad flag-stones. At the end of the 
passage in the main street to which it led, he saw already 
the large, smart, showy shop, with the hot sun shining 
full on the gilt letters that conveyed to the eyes of the 
customer the respectable name of “Morton” — when 
suddenly, the silence was broken by choked and painful 
sobs. He turned, and beneath a compo portico, jutting 
from the wall, which adorned the physician’s door, he 
saw a child seated on the stone steps weeping bitterly — 
a thrill shot through Philip’s heart ! Did he recognize, 
disguised as it was by pain and sorrow, that voice ? He 
paused, and laid his hand on the child’s shoulder : “ Oh, 
don’t — don’t — pray don’t — I am going. I am, indeed ! ” 
cried the child, quailing, and still keeping his hands 
clasped before his face. 

“ Sidney ! ” said Philip. The boy started to his feet. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


213 


uttered a cry of rapturous joy, and fell upon his brother’s 
breast. 

“ 0 Philip ! — dear, dear Philip ! you are come to take 
me away back to my own — own mamma ; I will be so 
good ; I will never tease her again — never, never ! I have 
been so wretched ! ” 

“ Sit down, and tell me what they have done to you,’ 
said Philip, checking the rising heart that heaved at hi? 
mother’s name. 

So, there they sat, on the cold stone under the stranger’s 
porch, these two orphans : Philip’s arm round his brother’s 
waist, Sidney leaning on his shoulder, and imparting to 
him — perhaps with pardonable exaggeration — all the 
sufferings he had gone through ; and, when he came to 
that morning’s chastisement, and showed the wale across 
the little hands which he had vainly held up in supplica- 
tion, Philip’s passion shook him from limb to limb. His 
impulse was to march straight into Mr. Morton’s shop, 
and gripe him by the throat ; and the indignation he 
betrayed encouraged Sidney to color yet more highly the 
tale of his wrongs and pain. 

When he had done, and clinging tightly to his brother’s 
broad chest, said — 

“But never mind, Philip; now we will go home to 
mamma.” 

Philip replied — 

“ Listen to me, my dear brother. We cannot go bach 
to our mother. I will tell you why, later. We are alone 


214 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


in the world — we two ! If you will come with me — 
God help you I — for you will have many hardships : we 
shall have to work and drudge, and you may be cold and 
hungry, and tired, very often, Sidney — very, very often ! 
But you know that, long ago, when I was so passionate, 
I never was wilfully unkind to you ; and I declare now, 
that I would bite out my tongue rather than it should 
say a harsh word to you. That is all I can promise. 
Think well. Will you never miss all the comforts you 
have now ? ” 

“ Comforts ! ” repeated Sidney, ruefully, and looking 
at the wale over his hands. “ Oh ! let — let — let me go 
with you : I shall die if I stay here. I shall, indeed — 
indeed ! ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Philip ; for at that moment a step was 
heard, and the pale gentleman walked slowly down the 
passage, and started, and turned his head wistfully as he 
looked at the boys. 

When t he was gone, Philip rose. 

“ It is settled, then,” said he, firmly. “ Come with me 
at once. You shall return to their roof no more. Come, 
quick: we shall have many miles to go to-night.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


215 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ He comes 

Yet careless wliat he brings ; his one concern 
Is to conduct it to the destined inn; 

And having dropp’d the expected bag, pass on 

To him indifferent whether grief “or joy.” 

Cowper : Description of the Postman. 

The pale gentleman entered Mr. Morton’s shop ; and 
looking round him, spied the worthy trader showing 
shawls to a young lady just married. He seated himself 
on a stool, and said to the bowing foreman — 

“I will wait till Mr. Morton is disengaged.” 

The young lady having closely examined seven shawls, 
and declared they were beautiful, said, “ she would think 
of it,” and walked away. Mr. Morton now approached 
the stranger. 

“ Mr. Morton,” said the pale gentleman, “you. are very 
little altered. You do not recollect me?” 

“ Bless me, Mr. Spencer ! is it really you ? Well, what 
a time since we met ! I am very glad to see you. And 
what brings you to N ? Business ? ” 

“Yes, business. Let us go within.” 

Mr. Morton led the way to the parlor, where Master 
Tom, reperched on the stool, was rapidly digesting the 
plundered muffin. Mr. Morten dismissed him to play, 
and the pale gentleman took a chair. 


216 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Mr. Morton,” said he, glancing over his dress, “you 
see I am in mourning. It is for your sister. I never got 
the better of that early attachment — never.” 

“ My sister ! Good Heavens I ” said Mr. Morton, turn- 
ing very pale ; “ is she dead ? — Poor Catherine ! — and 
I not know of it ! When did she die ? ” 

“ Not many days since : and — and — ” said Mr. Spen- 
cer, greatly affected, “ I fear in want. I had been abroad 
for some months : on my return last week, looking over 
the newspapers, (for I always order them to be filed,) I 
read the short account of her law-suit against Mr. Beau- 
fort, some time back. I resolved to find her out. I did 
so through the solicitor she employed : it was too late ; I 
arrived at her lodgings two days after her — her burial. 
I then determined to visit poor Catherine’s brother, and 
learn if anything could be done for the children she had 
left behind.” 

“ She left but two. Philip, the elder, is. very comfort- 
ably placed at It ; the younger has his home with 

me ; and Mrs. Morton is a moth — that is to say, she takes 
great pains with him. Ehem ! And my poor — poor 
sister ! ” 

“ Is he like his mother ? ” 

“ V 3ry much, when she was young — poor dear Cathe- 
rine ! ” 

“ What age is he ? ” 

“About ten, perhaps; I don’t know exactly; much 
younger than the other. And so she’s dead ! ” 

“ Mr. Morton, I am an old bachelor,” (here a sickly 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


211 


smile crossed Mr. Spencer’s face) ; “ a small portion of 
my fortune is settled, it is true, on my relations ; but the 
rest is mine, and I live within my income. The elder of 
these boys is probably old enough to begin to take care 
of himself. But, the younger — perhaps you have a family 
of your own, and can spare himV ’ 

Mr. Morton hesitated, and twitched up his trousers. 

“ Why,” said he, “ this is very kind in you. I don’t 
know — we’ll see. The boy is out now ; come and dine 
with us at two — pot-luck. Well, so she is no more ! — 
Heigho ! — Meanwhile* I’ll talk it over with Mrs. M.” 

“ I will be with you,” said Mr. Spencer, rising. 

“ Ah ! ” sighed Mr. Morton, “ if Catherine had bui 
married you. she would have been a happy woman.” 

“ I would have tried to make her so,” said Mr. Spen- 
cer, as he turned away his face, and took his departure. 

Two o’clock came ; but no Sidney. They had sent to 
the place whither he had been despatched ; he had never 
arrived there. Mr. Morton grew alarmed ; and, when 
Mr. Spencer came to dinner, his host was gone in search 
of the truant. He did not return, till three. Doomed 
tli at day to be belated both at breakfast and dinner, this 
decided him to part with Sidney whenever he should be 
found. Mrs. Morton was persuaded that the child only 
sulked, and would come back fast enough when he was 
hungry. Mr. Spencer tried to believe her, and ate his 
mutton, which was burnt to a cinder ; but, when five, six, 
seven o’clock came, and the boy was still missing, — even 
Mis. Morton agreed that it was high time to institute a 
I.— 19 


21 S 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


regular search. The whole family set off different ways. 
It was ten o’clock before they were reunited ; and then, 
all the news picked up was, that a boy, answering Sid- 
ney’s description, had been seen with a young man in 
three several parts of the town ; the last time at the out- 
skirts, on the high-road towards the manufacturing dis- 
tricts. These tidings so far relieved Mr. Morton’s mind 
that he dismissed the chilling fear that had crept there, 
that Sidney might have drowned himself. Boys will 
drown themselves sometimes !• The description of the 
young man coincided so remarkably with the fellow-pas- 
senger of Mr. Spencer, that he did not doubt it was the 
same j the more so, when he recollected having seen him 
with a fair-haired child under L the portico ; and, yet more, 
when he recalled the likeness to Catherine that had struck 
him in the coach, and caused the inquiry that had roused 
Philip’s suspicion. The mystery was thus made clear — 
Sidney had fled with his brother. Nothing more, how- 
ever, could be done that night. The next morning, active 
measures should be devised ; and when the morning came, 
the mail brought to Mr. Morton the two following letters. 
The first was from Arthur Beaufort. 

« Sir, — I have been prevented by severe illness from 
writing to you before. I can now scarcely hold a pen ; 
but the instant my health is recovered I shall be with you 
at N . 

“ On her death-bed, the mother of the boy under yout 
charge, Sidney Morton, committed him solemnly to me 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


219 


I make his fortunes my care, and shall hasten to claim 
him at your kindly hands. But the elder son. — this poor 
Philip, who has suffered so unjustty, — for our /awyer has 
seen Mr. Plaskwith and heard the whole story ; — what 
has become of him? All our inquiries have failed to 
track him. Alas, I was too ill to institute them myself 
while it was yet time. Perhaps he may have sought shel- 
ter with you, his uncle : if so, assure him that he is in no 
danger from the pursuit of the law, — that his innocence 
is fully recognised ; and that my father and myself im- 
plore him to accept our affection. I can write no moie 
now ; but in a few days I shall hope to see you. 

“ I am, sir, &c., 

“Arthur Beaufort. 

‘ Berkeley Square .” 

The second letter was from Mr. Plaskwith, and ran 
thus : — 

‘/Dear Morton, — Something very awkward has hap- 
pened, — not my fault, and very unpleasant for me. Your 
relation, Philip, as I wrote you word, was a pains-taking 
lad, though odd and bad-mannered, — for want, perhaps, 
poor boy ! of being taught better ; and Mrs. P. is, you 
know, a very genteel woman — women go too much by 
manners — so she never took much to him. However, to 
the point, as the French emperor used to say : one eve- 
ning he asked me for money for his mother, who, he said, 
was ill, in a very insolent way-: I may say threatening. 


220 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


It was in my own shop, and before Plimmins and Mrs. 
P. ; I was forced to answer with dignified rebuke, and 
left the shop. When I returned, he was gone, and some 
shillings — fourteen I think, and three sovereigns — evi- 
dently from the till, scattered on the floor. Mrs. P. and 
Mr. Plimmins were very much frightened ; thought it was 
clear I was robbed, and that we were to be murdered. 
Plimmins slept below that night, and we borrowed 
butcher Johnson’s dog. Nothing happened. I did not 
think I was Bobbed ; because the money, when we came 
to calculate, was all right. I know human nature : he 
had thought to take it, but repented — quite clear. 
However, I was naturally very angry, thought he’d come 
back again — meant to reprove him properly — waited 
several days — heard nothing of him — grew uneasy — would 
not attend longer to Mrs. P. ; for, as Napoleon Buona- 
parte observed, 1 women are well in their way, not in 
ours. 1 Made Plimmins go with me to town — hired a Bow 
Street runner to track him out — cost me 1?. Is. and two 
glasses of brandy-and-water. Poor Mrs. Morton was just 
buried — quite shocked! Suddenly saw the boy in the 
streets. Plimmins rushed forward in the kindest way — 
was knocked down — hurt his arm — paid 2s. 6c?. for lotion 
Philip ran off, we ran after him — could not find him 
Forced to return home. Next day, a lawyer from a Mr. 
Beaufort — Mr. George Blackwell, a gentleman-like man 
— called. Mr. Beaufort will do anything for him in 
reason. Is there anything more I can do ? I really am 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


221 


very uneasy about the lad, and Mrs. P. and I have a tiff 
about it : but that’s nothing — thought I had best write 
to you for instructions. 

11 Yours truly, 

C. Plaskwith. 

“ P. S. — Just open my letter to say, Bow Street officer 
just been here — has found, out that the boy has been 
seen with a very suspicious character : they think he has 

left London. Bow Street officer wants to go after him 

very expensive : so now you can decide.” 

Mr. Spencer scarcely listened to Mr. Plaskwith’s letter, 
but of Arthur’s he felt jealous. He would fain have been 
the only protector to Catherine’s children ; but he was 
the last man fitted to head the search, now so necessary 
to prosecute with equal tact and energy. 

A soft-hearted, soft-headed man, a confirmed valetudi- 
narian, a day-dreamer, who had wasted away his life in 
dawdling and maundering over Simple Poetry, and sigh- 
ing over his unhappy attachment ; no child, no babe, was 
more thoroughly helpless than Mr. Spencer. 

The task of investigation devolved, therefore, on Mr. 
Morton, and he went about it in a regular, plain, straight* 
forward way. Hand-bills were circulated, constables em- 
ployed, and a lawyer, accompanied by Mr. Spencer, 
despatched to the manufacturing districts : towards which 
the orphans had been seen to direct their path. 

19 * 


222 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


n 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Give the gentle South 
Yet leave to court those sails.” 

Beaumont ‘and Fletcher: Beggar's Bush. 

“Cut your cloth, sir, 

According to your calling.” — Ibid. 

Meanwhile the brothers were far away, and He who 
feeds the young ravens made their paths pleasant to their 
feet. Philip had broken to Sidney the sad news of their 
mother’s death, and Sidney had wept with bitter passion. 
But children, — what can they know of death ? Their 
tears over graves dry sooner than the dews. It is melan- 
choly to compare the depth, the endurance, the far-sighted, 
anxious, prayerful love of a parent, with the inconsider- 
ate, frail, and evanescent affection of the infant, whose 
eyes the hues of the butterfly yet dazzle with delight. It 
was the night of their flight, and in the open air, when 
Philip (his arms round Sidney’s waist) told his brother- 
orphan that they were motherless. And the air was 
balmy, the skies filled with the effulgent presence of tne 
August moon ; the corn-fields stretched round them wide 
and far, and not a leaf trembled on the beech-tree be- 
neath which they had sought shelter. It seemed as if 
Nature herself smiled pityingly on their young sorrow. 


and said to them, “ Grieve not for the dead : I, wno live 
for ever, I will be your mother ! ” 

They crept, as the night deepened, into the warmer 
sleeping-place afforded by stacks of hay, mown that 
summer and still fragrant. And the next morning the 
birds woke them betimes, to feel that Liberty, at least, 
was with them, and to wander with her at will. 

Who in his boyhood has not felt the delight of freedom 
and adventure ? to have the world of woods and sward 
before him — to escape restriction — to lean, for the first 
time, on his own resources — to rejoice in the wild but 
manly luxury of independence — to act the Crusoe — and 
to fancy a Friday in every foot-print — an island of his 
own in every field ? Yes, in spite of their desolatioif, 
their loss, of the melancholy past, of the friendless future, 
the orphans were happy — happy in their youth — their 
freedom — their love — their wanderings in the delicious 
air of the glorious August. Sometimes they came upon 
knots of reapers lingering in the shade of the hedge-rows 
over their noon-day meal ; and, grown sociable by travel, 
and bold by safety, they joined and partook of the rude 
fare with the zest of fatigue and youth. Sometimes, too, 
at night, they saw, gleam afar and red by the wood-side, 
fires of gipsy tents. But these, with the superstition 
derived from old nursery tales, they scrupulously shunned, 
eyeing them with a mysterious awe ! What heavenly 
twilights belong to that golden month ! — the air so lu- 
cidly serene, as the purple of the clouds fades gradually 
away, and up soars, broad, round, intense, and luminous. 


224 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the full moon which belongs to the joyous season ! The 
fields then are greener than in the heats of July and 
June, — they have got back the luxury of a second 
spring. And still, beside the paths of the travellers, 
lingered on the hedges the clustering honeysuckle — the 
convolvulus glittered in the tangles of the brake — the 
hardy heath-flower smiled on the green waste. 

And ever, at evening, they came, field after field, upon 
those circles which recall to children so many charmed 
legends, and are fresh and frequent in that month — the 
Fairy Rings ! They thought, poor boys ! that it was a 
good omen, and half fancied that the Fairies protected 
them, as in the old time they had often protected the 
desolate and outcast. 

They avoided the main roads, and all towns, with sus- 
picious care. But sometimes they paused, for food and' 
rest, at the obscure hostels of some scattered hamlet: 
though, more often, they loved to spread the simple food 
they purchased by the way, under some thick tree, or be- 
side a stream through whose limpid waters they could 
watch the trout glide and play. And they often preferred 
the chance-shelter of a haystack, or a shed, to the less 
romantic repose offered by the small inns they alone dared 
to enter. They went in this much by the face and voice 
of the host or hostess. Once only Philip had entered a 
town, on the second day of their flight, and that solely 
for the purchase of ruder clothes, and a change of linen 
for Sidney, with some articles and implements of use 
necessary in their present course of shift and welcome 


* NIGHT AND MORNING. 


225 


hardship. A wise precaution ; for, thus clad, they escaped 
suspicion. 

So journeying, they consumed several days ; and, hav - 
ing taken a direction quite opposite to that which led to 
the manufacturing districts, whither pursuit had been di- 
rected, they were now in the centre of another county — 
in the neighborhood of one of the most considerable 
towns of England ; and here Philip began to think their 
wanderings ought to cease, and it was time to settle on 
some definite course of life. He had carefully hoarded 
about his person, and most thriftily managed, the little 
fortune bequeathed by his mother. But Philip looked 
on this capital as a deposit sacred to Sidney ; it was not 
to be spent, but kept and augmented — the nucleus for 
future wealth. Within the last few weeks liis character 
’ was greatly ripened, and his powers of thought enlarged. 
He was no more a boy, — he was a man : he had another 
life to take care of. He resolved, then, to enter the town 
they were approaching, and to seek for some situation by 
which he might maintain both. Sidney was very loath 
to abandon their present roving life ; but he allowed that 
the warm weather could not always last, and that in 
winter the fields would be less pleasant. He, therefore, 
with a sigh, yielded to his brother’s reasonings. 

They entered the fair and busy town of — — one day 
at noon ; and, after finding a small lodging, at which he 
deposited Sidney, who was fatigued with their day’s walk, 
Philip sallied forth alone. 

After his long rambling, Philip was pleased and struck 
19 * 


p 


226 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


with the broad bustling streets, the gay shops — the 
evidences of opulence and trade. He thought it hard if 
he could not find there a market for the health and heart 
of sixteen. He strolled slowly and alone along the 
streets, till his attention was caught by a small corner- 
shop, in the window of which was placed a board, bearing 
this inscription : — 

“ OFFICE FOR EMPLOYMENT. — RECIPROCAL ADVANTAGE. 

“Mr. John Clump’s bureau open every day, from ten 
till four. Clerks, servants, laborers, &c., provided with 
suitable situations. Terms moderate. N. B. — The oldest 
office in the town. 

“Wanted, a good cook. An under gardener.” 

What he sought was here ! Philip entered, and saw 
a short, fat man with spectacles, seated before a desk, 
poring upon the well-filled leaves of a long register. 

“ Sir,” said Philip, “ I wish for a situation ; I don’t 
care what.” 

“ Half-a-crown for entry, if you please. That’s right. 
Now for particulars. Hum! — you don’t look like a 
servant ! ” 

“ No ; I wish for any place where my education can be 
of use. I can read and write ; I know Latin and French ; 
I can draw; I know arithmetic and summing.” 

“ Very well ; very genteel young man — prepossessing 
appearance — (that’s a fudge !) — highly educated ; usher 
in a school — eh?” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


22 ^ 


“What you like.” 

“ References ? ” 

< 

“I have none.” 

“Eh! — none!” and ,Mr. Clump fixed his spectacles 
full upon Philip. 0 

Philip was prepared for the question, and had the sense 
tc perceive that a frank reply was his best policy. “ The 
fact is,” said he, boldly, “ I was well brought up ; my 
father died ; I was to be bound apprentice to a trade 1 
disliked; I left it, and have now no friends.” 

“If I can help you, I will,” said Mr. Clump, coldly. 
“ Can ? t promise much. If you were a laborer, character 
might not matter ; but educated young men must have a 
character. Hands always more useful than head. Educa- 
tion no avail now-a-days ; common, quite common. Call 
again on Monday.” 

Somewhat disappointed and chilled, Philip turned from 
the bureau ; but he had a strong confidence in his own 
resources, and recovered his spirits as he mingled with 
the throng. He passed, at length, by a livery-stable, and 
paused, from old associations, as he saw a groom in the 
mews attempting to manage a young, hot horse, evidently 
unbroken. The master of the stables, in a green short 
ja ket, and top-boots, with a long whip in his hand, was 
standing by, with one or two men who looked like horse- 
dealers. 

“ Come off. clumsy ! you can’t manage that ’ere fine 
hanimal,” cried the livery-man. “Ah ! he’s a lamb, sir, if 
he were backed properly. But I has not a man in the 


228 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


yard as can ride, since Will died. Come off, I say 
lubber ! ” 

But to come off, without being thrown off, was more 
easily said than done. The horse was now plunging as 
if Juno had sent her gad-fly to him ; and Philip, interested 
and excited, came near and nearer, till he stood by the 
side of the horse-dealers. The other ostlers ran to the 
help of their comrade, who, at last, with white lips and 
shaking knees found himself on terra firma; while the 
horse, snorting hard, and rubbing his head against the 
breast and arms of the ostler who held him tightly by the 
rein, seemed to ask, in his own way, “Are there any more 
of you ? ” 

A suspicion that the horse was an old acquaintance 
crossed Philip’s mind ; he went up to him, and a white 
spot over the left eye confirmed his doubts. It had been 
a foal reserved and reared for his own riding ; one that, 
in his prosperous days, had ate bread from his hand, and 
followed him round the paddock like a dog ; one that he 
had mounted in sport, without saddle, when his father’s 
back was turned ; a friend, in short, of the happy lang 
syne ; — nay, the very friend to whom he had boasted his 
affection, when, standing with Arthur Beaufort under the 
summer sky, the whole world seemed to him full of 
friends. He put his hand on the horse’s neck, and 
whispered, “ Soho ! So, Billy ! ” and the horse turned 
§harp round with a quick joyous neigh. 

“If you please, sir,” said Philip, appealing to the 
livery-man, “ I will undertake to ride this horse, and take 
him over yon leaping-bar. Just let me try him.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


229 


“ There’s a fine-spirited lad for you ! ” said the livery- 
man, much pleased at the offer. “ Now, gentlemen, dia 
I not tell you that ’ere hanimal had no vice if he was 
properly managed ? ” 

The horse-dealers shook their heads. 

“ May I give him some bread first ? ” asked Philip ; 
and the ostler was despatched to the house. Meanwhile 
the animal evinced various signs of pleasure and recogni- 
tion, as Philip stroked and talked to him ; and, finally, 
when he ate the bread from the young man’s hand, the 
whole yard seemed in as much delight and surprise as if 
they had witnessed one of Monsieur Yan Amburgh’s 
exploits. 

And now, Philip, still caressing the horse, slowly and 
cautiously mounted ; the animal made one bound half- 
across the yard — a bound which sent all the horse- 
dealers into a corner — and then went through his paces, 
one after the other, with as much ease and calm as if he 
had been broke in at Mr. Fozard’s to carry a young lady. 
And when he crowned all by going thrice over the leap- 
ing-bar, and Philip, dismounting, threw the reins to the 
ostler, and turned triumphantly to the horse-dealer, that 
gentleman slapped him on the back, and said, em- 
phatically, “ Sir, you are a man ! and I am proud to see 
you here.” 

Meanwhile the horse-dealers gathered round the 
animal; looked at his hoofs, felt his legs, examined his 
windpipe, and concluded the bargain, which, but foi 

I.— -20 


230 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Philip, would have been very abruptly broken off. When 
the horse was led out of the yard, the livery-man, Mr. 
Stubmore, turned to Philip, who, leaning against the 
wall, followed the poor animal with mournful eyes. 

“ My good sir, you have sold that horse for me — that 
you have ! Anything as I can do for you ? One good 
turn deserves another. Here’s a brace of shiners.” 

“ Thank you, sir I I want no money, but I do want 
some deployment. I can be of use to you, perhaps, in 
your establishment. I have been brought up among 
horses all my life.” 

“ Saw it, sir ! that’s very clear. I say that ’ere horse 
knows you ! ” and the dealer put his finger to his nose. 
“ Quite right to be mum ! He was bred by an old 
customer of mine — famous rider ! — Mr. Beaufort. Aha ! 
that’s where you knew him, I ’spose. Were you in his 
stables ? ” 

“Hem — I knew Mr. Beaufort well.” 

“ Did you ? You could not know a better man. 
Well, I shall be very glad to engage you, though you 
6eem by your hands to be a bit of a gentleman — eh ? 
Never mind ; don’t want you to groom ! — but superintend 
things. D’ye know acccounts, eh?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Character ? ” , 

Philip repeated to Mr. Stubmore the story he had im- 
parted to Mr. Clump. Somehow or other, men who live 
much with horses, are always more lax in their notions 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


231 


than the rest of mankind. Mr. Stubmore did not seem 
to grow more distant at Philip’s narration. 

“Understand you perfectly, my man. Brought up 
with them ’ere fine creturs, how could you nail your nose 
to a desk ? I’ll take you without more palaver. What’s 
youi name ? ” 

“ Philips. ” 

“ Come to-morrow and we’ll settle about wages. 
Sleep here ? ” 

“ N.o. I have a brother whom I must lodge with, and 
for whose sake I wish to work. I should not like him 
to be at the stables — he is too young. But I can come 
early every day, and go home late.” 

“Well, just as you like, man. Good day.” 

And thus, not from any mental accomplishment — not 
from the result of his intellectual education, but from 
the mere physical capacity and brute habit of sticking 
fast on his saddle, did Philip Morton, in this great, in- 
telligent, gifted, civilized, enlightened community of Great 
Britain, find the means of earning his bread without 
stealing it 


/ 


232 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Don Salluste (souriant). Je parle 
Que vous ne pensiez pas a moi ?” — Ruy Bias. 

“ Don Salluste. Cousin ! 

u Don Cesar. De vos bienfaits je n’aurai nuile envle, 

Tant que je trouverai vivant ma libre vie .”* — Ibid 

Philip’s situation was agreeable to his habits. His 
great courage and skill in horsemanship were not the 
only qualifications useful to Mr. Stubmore : his educa- 
tion answered an useful purpose in accounts, and his 
manners and appearance were highly to the credit of the 
yard. The customers and loungers soon grew to like 
Gentleman Philips, as he was styled in the establishment. 
Mr. Stubmore conceived a real affection for him. So 
passed several weeks ; and Philip, in this humble capacity, 
might have worked out his destinies in peace and comfort, 
but for a new cause of vexation that arose in Sidne} . 
This boy was all in all to his brother. For him, he had 
resisted the hearty and joyous invitations of Gawtrey 
(whose gay manner and high spirits had, it must be owned, 
captivated his fancy, despite the equivocal mystery of the 
man’s avocations and condition) ; for him he now worked 

* Don Sallust (smiling). I’ll lay a wager you won’t think of me ? 

Don Sallust. Cousin ! 

Don Ccesar. I covet not your favors, so I but lead an independent 
life. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


233 


and toiled, cheerful and contented ; and him he sought 
to save from all to which he subjected himself.. He could 
not bear that that soft and delicate child should ever be 
exposed to the low and menial associations that now 
made up his own life — to the obscene slang of grooms 
and ostlers — to their coarse manners and rough contact. 
He kept him, therefore, apart and aloof in their little 
lodging, and hoped in time to lay by, so that Sidney 
might ultimately be restored, if not to his bright original 
sphere, at least to a higher grade than that to which 
Philip was himself condemned. But poor Sidney could 
not bear to be thus left alone — to lose sight of his 
brother from day-break till bed-time — to have no one 
to amuse him ; he fretted and pined away : all th.e little 
inconsiderate selfishness, uneradicated from his breast by 
his sufferings, broke out the more, the more he felt that 
he was the first object on earth to Philip. Philjp, think- 
ing he might be more cheerful at a day-school, tried the 
experiment of placing him at one where the boys were 
much of his own age. But Sidney, on the third day, 
came back with a black eye, and he would return no more 
Philip several times thought of changing their lodging 
for one where there were young people. But Sidney hau 
taken a fancy to the kind old widow who was their land- 
lady, and cried at the thought of removal. Unfortunately, 
the old woman was deaf and rheumatic ; and though she 
bore teasing ad libitum , she could not entertain the child 
long on a stretch. Too young to be reasonable, Sidney 
20 * 


234 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


could not, or would not, comprehend why his brother was 
so long away from him ; and. once he said, peevishly — 

“ If I had thought I was to be moped up so, I would 
not have left Mrs. Morton. Tom was a bad boy but still 
it was somebody to play with. I wish I had not gone 
away with you ! ” 

This speech cut Philip to the heart. What, then, he 
had taken from the child a respectable and safe shelter — - 
the sure provision of a life — and the child now reproached 
him ! When this was said to him, the tears gushed from 
his eyes. 

“ God forgive me, Sidney,” said he, and turned away. 

But then Sidney, who had the most endearing ways 
with him, seeing his brother so vexed, ran up and kissed 
him, and scolded himself for being naughty. Still the 
words were spoken, and their meaning rankled deep. 
Philip himself, too, was morbid in his excessive tenderness 
for this boy. There is a certain age, before the love for 
the sex commences, when the feeling of friendship is al- 
most a passion. You see it constantly in girls and boys 
at school. It is the first vague craving of the heart after 
the master food of human life — Love. It has its jealousies, 
and humors, and caprices, like love itself. Philip was 
painfully acute to Sidney’s affection, was jealous of every 
particle of it. He dreaded lest his brother should ever 
be torn from him. 

He would start from his sleep at night, and go to Sid 
uey’s bed to see that he was there. He left him in the 
morning with forebodings — he returned in the dark with 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


235 


fear. Meanwhile the character of this young man, so 
sweet and tender to Sidney, was gradually becoming 
more hard and stern to others. He had now climbed to 
the post of command in that rude establishment ; and 
premature command in any sphere tends to make men 
unsocial and imperious. 

One day Mr. Stubmore called him into his own count- 
ing-house, where stood a gentleman, with one hand in 
his coat-pocket, the other tapping his whip against his 
boot. 

“ Philips, show this gentleman the brown mare. She is 
a beauty in harness, is not she ? This gentleman wants 
a match for his pheaton.” 

“ She must step very hoigh,” said the gentleman, turn- 
ing round ; and Philip recognised the beau in the stage- 
coach. 

The recognition was simultaneous. The beau nodded, 
then whistled, and winked. 

“ Come, my man, I am at your service,” said he. 

Philip, with many misgivings, followed him across the 
yard. The gentleman then beckoned him to approach. 

“You, sir, — moind I never peach — setting up here in 
the honest line ? Dull work, honesty, — eh ? ” 

“ Sir, I really don’t know you.’ 

“Daun’t you recollect old Gregg’s, the evening you 
came there with jolly Bill Gawtrey ? Recollect that, eh ?” 

Philip was mute. 

“ I was among the gentlemen in the back-parlor who 
shook you by the hand. Bill’s off to France, then. I 


236 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


am tanking the provinces. I want a good horse — the 
best in the yard, moind ! Cutting such a swell here ! My 
name is Captain de Burgh Smith — never moind yours, 
my fine faellow. Now then, out with your rattlers, and 
keep your tongue in your mouth.” 

Philip mechanically ordered out the brown mare, which 
Captain Smith did not seem much to approve of ; and, 
after glancing round the stables with great disdain of thfe 
collection, he sauntered out of the yard without saying 
more to Philip, though he stopped and spoke a few sen- 
tences to Mr. Stubmore. Philip hoped he had no design 
of purchasing, and that he was rid, for the present, of sc 
awkward a customer. Mr. Stubmore approached Philip. 

“Drive over the greys to Sir John,” said he. “My 
lady wants a pair to job. A very pleasant man, that 
Captain Smith. I did not know you had been in a yard 
before — says you were the pet at Elmore’s in London. 
Served him many a day. Pleasant gentleman-like man ! ” 
“ Y — e — s!” said Philip, hardly knowing what he 
said, and hurrying back into the stables to order out the 
greys. 

The place to which he was bound was some miles dis- 
tant, and it was sunset when he returned. As he drove 
into the main street, two men observed him closely. 

“ That is he ! I am almost sure it is,” said one. 

“ Oh I then its all smooth sailing,” replied the other 
“ But, bless my eyes ! you must be mistaken ! See 
whom he’s talking to now ! ” 

At that moment Captain de Burgh Smith, mounted on 
the brown mare, stopped Philip. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


237 


.4 


“Well, you see, I’ve bought her, — hope she’ll turn out 
well. What do you really think she’s worth ? Not to 
buy, but to sell ? ” 

“Sixty gnineas.” 

“ Well, that’s a good day’s work ; and I owe it to you. 
The old faellow would not have trusted me if you had not 
served me at Elmore’s, — ha 1 ha ! If he gets scent and 
'looks shy at you, my lad, come to me. I’m at the Star 
Hotel for the next few days. I want a tight faellow like 
you, and you shall have a fair per-centage. I’m none of 
your stingy ones. I say, I hope this devil is quiet ? She 
cocks up her ears dawmnably ! ” 

“ Look you, sir ! said Philip, very gravely, and rising 
up in his break ; “ I know very little of you, and that little 
is not much to your credit. I give you fair warning, that 
I shall caution my employer against you.” 

“ Will you, my fine faellow ? then take care of your- 
self. ” 

“ Stay ! and if you dare utter a word against me,” said 
Philip, with that frown to which his swarthy complexion 
and flashing eyes gave an expression of fierce power be- 
yond his years, “you will find that, as I am the last to 
care for a threat, so I am the first to resent an injury ! ” 

Thus saying, he dro.ve on.~ Captain Smith affected & 
co ugh, and put his brown mare into a canter. The two 
men followed Philip as he drove into the yard. “What 
do you know against the person he spoke to ? ” said one 
tif them. 

“ Merely that he is one of the cunningest swells on this 


238 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


side the Bay,” returned the other. “It looks bad for 
your young friend.” 

The first speaker shook his head and made no reply. 

On gaining the yard, Philip found that Mr. Stubmore 
had gone out, and was not expected home till the next 
day. He had some relations who were farmers, whom he 
often visited ; to them he was probably gone. 

Philip, therefore, deferring his intended caution against 
the gay captain till the morrow, and musing how the 
caution might be most discreetly given, walked homeward. 
Hq had just entered the lane that led to his lodgings, 
when he saw the two men I have spoken of on the other 
side of the street. The taller and better-dressed of the 
two left his comrade, and crossing over to Philip, bowed, 
and thus accosted him, — 

“ Fine evening, Mr. Philip Morton. I am rejoiced to 
see you at last. You remember me — Mr. Blackwell, Lin- 
coln’s Inn ? ” 

“What is your business?” said Philip, halting, and 
speaking short and fiercely. 

“ Now don’t be in a passion, my dear sir, — now don’t. 
I am here on behalf of my clients, Messrs. Beaufort, sen. 
and jun. I have had such work to find you ! Dear, dear ! 
but you are a sly one ! Ha ! ha ! Well, you see we have 
settled that little affair of Plaskwith’s for you (might 
have been ugly), and now I hope you will ” 

“/To your business, sir ! What do you want with me ?” 

“ Why, now, don’t be so quick ! ’Tis not the way to 
du business. Suppose you step to my hotel. A glass 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


239 


of wine, now, Mr. Philip ! We shall soon understand 
each other.” 

“ Out of my path, or speak plainly ! ” 

Thus put to it, the lawyer, casting a glance at his stout 
companion, who appeared to be contemplating the sunset 
on the other side of the way, came at once to the marrow 
of his subject. 

“Well, then, — well, my say is soon said. Mr. Arthur 
Beaufort takes a most lively interest in you ; it is he who 
has directed this inquiry. He bids me say that he shall 
be most happy — yes, most happy — to serve you in any- 
thing ; and if you will but see him, he is in the town, I 
am sure you will be charmed with him — most amiable 
young man ! ” 

“ Look you, sir,” said Philip, drawing himself up : 
“neither from father, nor from son, nor from one of that 
family, on whose heads rest the mother’s death and the 
orphans’ curse, will I ever accept boon or benefit — with 
them, voluntarily, I will hold no communion ; if they 
force themselves in my path, let them beware ! I am 
earning my bread in the way I desire — I am independent 
— I want them not. Begone ! ” 

With that, Philip pushed aside the lawyer and strode 
i)n rapidly. Mr. Blackwell, abashed and perplexed, re- 
turned to his companion. 

Philip regained his home, and found Sidney stationed 
at the window alone, and with wistful eyes noting the 
flight of the grey moths, as they darted to and fro, across 
the dull shrubs, that, variegated with lines for washing. 


240 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


adorned the plot of ground which the landlady called a 
garden. The elder brother had returned at an earlier 
hour than usual, and Sidney did not at first perceive him 
enter. When he did, he clapped his hands, and ran to 
him. 

“ This is so good in you, Philip. I have been so dull; 
*— you will come and play now ? ” 

“With all my heart — where shall we play?” said 
Philip, with a cheerful smile. 

“ Oh, in the garden ! — it’s such a nice time for hide 
and seek.” 

“ But is it not chill and damp for you ? ” said Philip. 

“ There now ; you are always making excuses. I see 
you don’t like it. I have no heart to play now.” 

Sidney seated himself and pouted. 

“ Poor Sidney ! you must be dull without me. Yes, 
let us play ; but put on this handkerchief;” and Philip 
took off his own cravat and tied it round his brother’s 
neck and kissed him. 

Sidney, whose anger seldom lasted long, was reconciled ; 
and they went into the garden to play. It was a little 
spot, screened by an old moss-grov/n paling, from the 
neighboring garden on the one side, and a lane on the 
other. They played with great glee till the night grew 
darker and the dews heavier. 

“ This must be the last time,” cried Philip. It is my 
turn to hide.” 

“Yery well! Now, then.” 

Philip secreted himself behind a poplar ; and as Sidney 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


24) 


searched for him, and Philip stole round and round the 
tree, the latter, happening to look across the paling, saw 
the dim outline of a man’s figure in the lane, who appeared 
watching them. A thrill shot across his breast. These 
Beauforts, associated in his thoughts with every ill omen 
and augury, had they set a spy upon his movements ? He 
remained erect and gazing at the form, when Sidney dis- 
covered, and ran up to him, with his noisy laugh. 

As the child clung to him, shouting with gladness, 
Philip, unheeding his playmate, called aloud and im- 
periously to the stranger, — 

“ What are you gaping at ? Why do you stand watch- 
ing us ? ” 

The man muttered something, moved on, and disap- 
peared. 

“ I hope there are no thieves here ! I am so much afraid 
of thieves,” said Sidney, tremulously. 

The fear grated on Philip’s heart. Had he not him- 
self, perhaps, been judged and treated as a thief? He said 
nothing, but drew his brother within ; and there, in their 
little room, by the one poor candle, it was touching and 
beautiful to see these boys — the tender patience of the 
elder lending itself to every whim of the younger — now 
building houses with cards — now telling stories of fairy 
and knight-errant — the sprightliest he could remember 
or invent. At length, as all was over, and Sidney was 
undressing for the night, Philip, standing apart, said to 
him, in a mournful voice. — 

“Are you sad now, Sidney ? ” 

I. — 21 Q 


242 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“No ! not when you are with me — but that is so 
seldom ” 

“ Do you read none of the story-books I bought for 
you ? ” 

“Sometimes! but one can’t read all day.” 

“Ah ! Sidney, if ever we should part, perhaps you will 
love me no longer ! ” 

“ Don’t say so,” said Sidney. “ But we sha’n’t part, 
Philip ? ” 

Philip sighed, and turned away as his brother leaped 
into bed. Something whispered to him that danger was 
near ; and as it was, could Sidney grow, up, neglected 
and uneducated ? was it thus that he was to fulfil his 
trust ? 


CHAPTER IX. 

“But oh, what storm was in that mind!” — C rabbe: Ruth. 

While Philip mused, and his brother fell into the happy 
sleep of childhood, in a room in the principal hotel of 
the town sat three persons, Arthur Beaufort, Mr. Spencer, 
and Mr. Blackwell. 

“And so,” said the first, “ he rejected every overture 
from the Beauforts ? ” 

“ With a scorn I cannot convey to you ! ” replied the 
lawyer. “But the fact is, that he is evidently a lad of 
low haoits ; to think of his being a sort of helper to a 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


243 


horse-dealer ! I suppose, sir. he was always in the stables 
in his father’s time. Bad company depraves the taste 
very soon, but that is not the worst. Sharp declares that 
the man he was talking with, as I told you, is a common 
swindler. Depend on it, Mr. Arthur, lie is incorrigible ; 
all we can do is to save the brother.” 

“ It is too dreadful to contemplate 1 ” said Arthur, who, 
still ill and languid, reclined on a sofa. 

“ It is, indeed,” said Mr. Spencer ; “lam sure I should 
not know what to do with such a character ; but the other 
poor child, it would be a mercy to get hold of him. ” 

“ Where is Mr. Sharp ? ” asked Arthur. 

“ Why,” said the lawyer, “ he has followed Philip at a 
distance to find out his lodgings, and learn if his brother 
is with him. Oh ! here he is !” and Blackwell’s companion 
in the earlier part of the evening entered. 

“ I have found him out, sir,” said Mr. Sharp, wiping 
his forehead. “ What a fierce ’un he is ! I thought he 
would have had a stone at my head ; but we, officers, are 
used to it ; we does our duty, and Providence makes our 
heads unkimmon hard ! ” 

“ Is the child with him ? ” asked Mr. Spencer. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“A little, quiet, subdued boy?” asked the melancholy 
inhabitant of the Lakes. 

“ Quiet ! Lord love you ! never heard a noisier little 
urchin ! There they were, romping and rouping in the 
garden, like a couple of gaol-birds.” 

“ You see,” groaned Mr. Spencer, “he will make that 
poor child as bad as himself.” 


241 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ What shall us do, Mr. Blackwell ? ” asked Sharp, 
who longed for his brandy-and-water. 

“Why, I was thinking you might go to the horse- 
dealer the first thing in the morning; find out whether 
Philip is really thick with the swindler ; and, perhaps, 
Mr. Stubmore may have some influence with him, if, with- 
out saying who he is ” 

“ Yes,” interrupted Arthur, “ do not expose his name.” 

“ You could still hint that he ought to be induced to 
listen to his friends, and go with them. Mr. Stubmore 
may be a respectable man, and ” 

“ I understand,” said Sharp ; “ I have no doubt as how 
I can settle it. We learns to know human natur in our 
profession ; — ’cause why, we gets at its blind side. Good 
night, gentlemen ! ” 

/ 

“ You seem very pale, Mr. Arthur ; you had better go 
to bed: you promised your father, you know.” 

“ Yes, I am not well ; I will go to bed ; ” and Arthur 
rose, lighted his candle, and sought his room. 

“ I will see Philip to-morrow,” he said to himself ; “ he 
will listen to ?ne.” . 

The conduct of Arthur Beaufort in executing the charge 
he had undertaken, had brought into full light all the 
most amiable and generous part of his character. As 
soon as he was sufficiently fecovered, he had expressed 
so much anxiety as to the fate of the orphans, that to 
quiet him his father was forced to send for Mr. Blackwell. 

The lawyer had ascertained, through Dr.. , the name 

of Philip’s employer at R- . At Arthur’s request he 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


245 


went down to Mr. Plaskwith ; and arriving there the day 
after the return of the bookseller, learned those particulars 
with which Mr. Plaskwith’s letter to Roger Morton has 
already made the reader acquainted. The lawyer then 
sent for Mr. Sharp, the officer before employed, and com- 
missioned him to track the young man’s whereabout. 
That shrewd functionary soon reported that a youth every 
way answering to Philip’s description, had been intro- 
duced the night of the escape by a man celebrated, not 
indeed for robberies, or larcenies, or crimes of the coarser # 
kind, but for address in all that more large and complex 
character which comes under the denomination of living 
upon one’s wits, to a polite rendezvous frequented by 
persons of a similar profession. Since then, however, 
all clue to Philip was lost. But though Mr. Blackwell, 
in the way of his profession, was thus publicly benevolent 
towards the fugitive, he did not the less privately repre- 
sent to his patrons, senior and junior, the very equivocal 
character that Philip must be allowed to bear. Like 
most lawyers, hard upon all who wander from the formal 
tracks, he unaffectedly regarded Philip’s flight and absence 
as proofs of a very reprobate disposition ; and this con- 
duct was greatly aggravated in his eyes by Mr. Sharp’s 
report, by which it appeared that after his escape Philip 
had so suddenly, and, as it were, so naturally, taken to 
such equivocal companionship.' Mr. Robert Beaufort, 
already prejudiced against Philip, viewed matters in the 
game light as the lawyer ; and the story of his supposed 
predilections reached Arthur’s ears in so distorted a 
21 * 


246 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


shape, that even he was staggered and revolted : — still 
Philip was so young — Arthur’s oath to the orphans’ 
mother so recent — and if thus early inclined to wrong 
courses, should not every effort be made to lure him back 
to the straight path ? With these views and reasonings, 
as soon as he was able, Arthur himself visited Mrs. Lacy, 
and the note from Philip, which the good lady put into 
his hands, affected him deeply, and confirmed all his 
previous resolutions. Mrs. Lacy was very anxious to 
get at his name ; but Arthur, having heard that Philip 
had refused all aid from his father and Mr. Blackwell, 
thought that the young man’s pride might work equally 
against himself, and therefore evaded, the landlady’s 
curiosity. He wrote the next day the letter we have 
seen, to Mr. Roger Morton, whose address Catherine had 
given to him ; and by return of post came a letter from 
the linen-draper, narrating the flight of Sidney, as it was 
supposed, with his brother. This news so excited Arthur, 

that he insisted on going down to N at once, and 

joining in the search. His father, alarmed for his health, 
positively refused ; and the consequence was an increase 
of fever, a consultation with the doctors, and a declara- 
tion that Mr. Arthur was in that state that it would be 
dangerous not to let him have his own way. Mr. Beau- 
fort was forced to yield, and with Blackwell and Mr. 

Sharp accompanied his son to N . The inquiries, 

hitherto fruitless, then assumed a more regular and 
business-like character. By little and little they came, 
through the aid of Mr. Sharp, upon the right clue, up 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


247 


to a certain point. But here there was a double scent : 
two youths answering the description, had been seen at a 
small village ; then there came those who asserted that 
they had seen the same youths at a sea-port in one 
direction ; others, who deposed to their having taken the 
road to an inland town in the other. This had induced 
Arthur and his father to part company. Mr. Beaufort, 
accompanied by Roger Morton, went to the sea-port ; 
and Arthur, with Mr. Spencer and Mr. Sharp, more for- 
tunate, tracked the fugitives to their retreat. As for Mr. 
Beaufort, senior, now that his mind was more at ease 
about his son, he was thoroughly sick of the whole thing ; 
greatly bored by the society of Mr. Morton ; very much 
ashamed that he, so respectable and great a man, should 
be employed on such an errand ; more afraid of, than 
pleased with, any chance of discovering the fierce Philip; 
and secretly resolved upon slinking back to London, at 
the first reasonable excuse. 

The next morning Mr. Sharp entered betimes Mr. 
Stubmore’s counting-house. In the yard he caught a 
glimpse of Philip, and managed to keep himself unseen 
by that young gentleman. 

“ Mr. Stubmore, I think ? ” 

“At your service, sir.” 

Mr. Sharp shut the glass-door mysteriously, and lifting 
up the corner of a green curtain that covered the panes, 
beckoned to the startled Stubmore to approach. 

“ You see that '"ere young man in the velveteen jacket ; 
you employs him 

‘'I do, sir; he is my right hand.” 


248 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


“Well, now, don’t be frightened, but his friends are 
arter him. He has got into bad ways, and we want you 
to give him a little good advice.” 

“ Pooh 1 I know he has run away, like a fine-spirited 
lad as he is ; and as long as he likes to stay with me, they 
as comes after him may get a ducking in the horse- 
trough ! ” 

“ Be you a father ? a father of a family, Mr. Stub' 
more ? ” said Sharp, thrusting his hands into his breeches 
pockets, swelling out his stomach, and pursing up his lips 
with great solemnity. 

“ Nonsense 1 no gammon with me ! Take your chaff 
to the goslings. I tells you I can’t do without that ’ere 
lad. Every man to himself.” 

“ Oho 1 ” thought Sharp, “ I must change the tack.” — 
“Mr. Stubmore,” said he, taking a stool, “you speaks 
like a sensible man. No one can reasonably go for to ask 
a gentleman to go for to inconvenience himself. But what 
do you know of that ’ere youngster ? Had you a carakter 
with him ? ” 

“What’s that to you?” 

“ Why, it’s more to yourself, Mr. Stubmore ; he is but 
a lad, and if he goes back to his friends they may take 
care of him ; but he got into a bad set afore he come 
here. Do you know a good-looking chap with whiskers, 
who talks of his pheaton, and was riding last night on a 
brown mare ? ” 

“ Y — e — s ! ” said Mr. Stubmore, growing rather ' r ^ale, 
“ and I knows the mare, too. Why, sir, I sold him that 
mare ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


249 


" Did be pay you for her ? ” 

“ Why, to be sure ; he gave me a cheque on Coutts.” 

“And you took it ! My eyes ! what a flat ! ” Here Mr. 
Sharp closed the orbs he Jiad invoked, and whistled with 
that self-hugging delight which men invariably feel when 
another man is taken in. 

Mr. Stubmore became evidently nervous. 

“ Why, what now ; — you don’t think I’m done ? I did 
not let him have the mare till I went to the hotel, — found 
he was cutting a great dash there, a groom, a pheaton, 
and a v fine horse, and as extravagant as the devil ! ” 

“ 0 Lord ! — 0 Lord ! what a world this is ! What 
does he call his-self ? ” 

“ Why, here’s the cheque — George Frederick de — de 
Burgh Smith.” 

“ Put it in your pipe, my man, — put it in your pipe — 
not worth a d — ! ” 

“ And who the deuce are you, sir ? ” bawled out Mr. 
Stubmore, in an equal rage both with himself and his 
guest. 

“I, sir,” said the visitor, rising with great dignity, — 
“ I, sir, am of the great Bow Street Office, and my name 
is John Sharp!” 

Mr. Stubmore nearly fell off his stool, his eyes rolled 
in his head, and his teeth chattered. Mr. Sharp perceived 
the advantage he had gained, and continued 

“ Yes, sir ; and I could have much to say against that 
chap, who is nothing more or less than Dashing Jerry, 
as has ruined more girls and more tradesmen than any 
21 * 


250 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


lord in the land. And so I called to give you a bit of 
caution ; for, says I to myself, ‘ Mr. Stubmore is a respect- 
able man.’” 

“ I hope I am, sir,” said the crest-fallen horse-dealer; 
“that was always my character.” 

“ And the father of a family ? ” 

“ Three boys and a babe at the buzzom,” said Mr. 
Stubmore, pathetically. 

“ And he sha’n’t be taken in if I can help it ! That 
>ere young man as I am arter, you see, knows Captain 
Smith — ha! ha! — smell a rat now — eh?” 

“Captain Smith said he knew him — the wiper — and 
that’s what made me so green.” 

“ Well, we must not be hard on the youngster : ’cause 
why, he has friends as is gemmen. But you tell him to 
go back to his poor dear relations, and all shall be for- 
giyen ; and say as how you won’t keep him ; and if he 
don’t go back, he’ll have to get his livelihood without a 
carakter ; and use your influence with him like a man and 
a Christian, and what’s more, like the father of a family — 
Mr. Stubmore — with three boys and a babe at the buzzum. 
You won’t keep him now?” 

“ Keep him ! I have had a precious escape. I’d better 
g.o and see after the mare.” 

“ I doubt if you’ll find her : the Captain caught a 
sight of me this morning. Why, he lodges at our hotel ! 
— lie’s off by this time !” 

“ And why the devil did you let him go ? ” 

“ ’Cause I had no writ agin him ! ” said the Bow Street 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


251 


officer ; and he walked straight out of the counting-office, 
satisfied that he had “done the job.” 

To snatch his hat — to run to the hotel — to find that 
Captain Smith had indeed gone off in his phaeton, bag 
and baggage, the same as he came, except that he had 
now two horses to the phaeton instead of one — having 
left with the landlord the amount of his bill in another 
cheque upon Coutts — was the work of five minutes with 
Mr. Stubmore. He returned home, panting and purple 
wjtli indignation and wounded feeling. 

“ To think that chap, whom I took into my yard like a 
son, should have connived at this ! ’Taint the money — 
>tis the willany that ’flicts me ! ” muttered Mr. Stubmore, 
as he re-entered the mews. 

Here he came plump upon Philip, who said, — * 

“ Sir, I wished to see you, to say that you had better 
take care of Captain Smith.” 

“ Oh, you did, did you, now he’s gone ? ’sconded off to 
America, I dare say, by this time. • Now look ye, young 
man ; your friends are after you, I won’t say anything 
agin you ; but you go back to them — I wash my hands 
of you. Quite too much for me. There’s your week, and 
never let me catch you in my yard agin, that’s all ! ” 
Philip dropped the money which Stubmore had put 
into his harid. “ My friends ! — friends have been with 
you, have they? I thought so — I thank them. And 
so you part with me ? Well, you have been kind, very 
kind ; let us part kindly ; ” and he held out his hand. 

Mr. Stubmore was softened — he touched the hand held 


V 


264 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

out to him, and looked doubtful a moment; but Captain 
de Burgh Smith’s cheque for eighty guineas suddenly 
rose before his eyes. He turned on his heel abruptly, 
and said, over his shoulder — 

“ Don’t go after Captain Smith (he’ll come to the 
gallows) ; mend your ways, and be ruled by your poor 
dear relatives, whose hearts you are breaking.” 

“ Captain Smith ! Did my relations tell you ? ” 
“Yes — yes — they told me all — that is, they sent to 

tell me ; so you see I’m d d soft not to lay hold of yo.u. 

But, perhaps, if they be gemmen, they’ll act as sich, and 
cash me this here cheque ! ” 

But the last words were said to air. Philip had rushed 
from the yard. 

With a heaving breast, and every nerve in his body 
quivering with wrath, the proud, unhappy boy strode 
through the gay streets. They had betrayed him then, 
these accursed Beauforts ! they circled his steps with 
schemes to drive him like a deer into the snare of their 
loathsome charity ! The roof was to be taken from his 
head — the bread from his lips — so that he might fawn 
at their knees for bounty. “ But they shall not break my 
spirit, nor steal away my curse. No, my dead mother, 
never ! ” 

As he thus muttered, he passed through a patch ot 
waste land that led to the row of houses in which his 
lodging was placed. And here a voice called to him, 
and a hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned, and 
Arthur Beaufort, who had followed him from the street. 




NIGHT AND MORNING. 


253 


stood behind him. Philip did not, at the first glance, 
recognise his cousin. Illness had so altered him, and his 
dress was so different from that in which he had first and 
last beheld him. The contrast between the two young 
men was remarkable. Philip was clad in the rough garb 
suited to his late calling — a jacket of black velveteen ill- 
fitting and ill-fashioned, loose fustian trowsers, coarse 
shoes, his hat set deep over his pent eyebrows, his raven 
hair long and neglected. He was just at that age when 
one with strong features and robust frame, is at the worst 
in point of appearance- — the sinewy proportions not yet 
sufficiently fleshed, and seeming inharmonious and un- 
developed ; precisely in proportion, perhaps, to the 
symmetry towards which they insensibly mature : the 
contour of the face sharpened from the roundness of boy- 
hood, and losing its bloom without yet acquiring that 
relief and shadow which make the expression and dignity 
of the masculine countenance. Thus accoutred, thus 
gaunt, and uncouth, stood Morton. Arthur Beaufort, 
always refined in his appearance, seemed yet more so 
from the almost feminine delicacy which ill health threw 
over his pale complexion and graceful figure ; that sort 
of unconscious elegance which belongs to the dress of the 
rich when they are young — seen most in minutiae — not 
observable, perhaps, by themselves — .marked forcibly and 
painfully the distinction of rank between the two. That 
distinction Beaufort did not feel ; but at a glance it was 
'isible to Philip. 

The past rushed back on him. The sunny lawn — the 
I. —22 


254 • 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


gun offered and rejected — the pride of old, much less 
haughty than the pride of to-day. 

“ Philip, ” said Beaufort, feebly, “they tell me you will 
not accept any kindness from me. or mine. Ah ! if you 
knew how we have sought you ! ” 

“ Knew ! ” cried Philip, savagely, for that unlucky 
sentence recalled to him his late interview with his em- 
ployer, and his present destitution, “ Knew ! And why 
have you dared to hunt me out, and halloo me down ? — 
why must this insolent tyranny, that assumes the right 
over these limbs and this free will, betray and expose me 
and my wretchedness wherever I turn ? ” 

“Your poor mother ” began Beaufort! 

“ Name, her not with your lips — name her not ! ” cried 
Philip, growing livid with his emotions. “ Talk not of 
the mercy — the forethought — a Beaufort could show to 
her and her offspring ! I accept it not — I believe it 
not. Oh, yes ! you follow me now with your false kind- 
ness ; and why ? Because your father — your vain, hol- 
low, heartless father ” 

“ Hold ! ” said Beaufort, in a tone of such reproach, 
that it startled the wild heart on which it fell ; “ it is my 
father you speak of. Let the son respect the son.” 

“No — no — no! I will respect none of your race. I 
tell you, your father fears me. I tell you, that my last 
words to him ring in his ears ! — My wrongs J Arthur 
Beaufort, when you are absent I seek to forget them ; in 
your abhorred presence they revive — they—. — ” 

He stopped, almost choked with his passion ; but con- 
tinued instantly, with equal intensity of fervor: — 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


255 


“Were yon tree the gibbet, and to touch your hand 
could alone save me from it, I would scorn your aid. 
Aid ! the very thought fires my blood and nerves my 
hand. Aid ! Will a Beaufort give me back my birth- 
right — restore my dead mother’s fair name ? Minion ! 
— sleek, dainty, luxurious minion! — out of my path! 
You have my fortune; my station, my rights ; I have but 
poverty, and hate, and disdain. I swear, again and 
again, that you shall not purchase these from me.” 

“ But, Philip — Philip,” cried Beaufort, catching his 
arm; “hear one — hear one who stood by your ” 

The sentence that would have saved the outcast from 
the demons that were darkening and swooping round his 
soul, died upon the young Protector’s lips. Blinded, 
maddened, excited, and exasperated, almost out of huma- 
nity itself, Philip fiercely — brutally — swung aside the 
enfeebled form that sought to cling to him, and Beaufort 
fell at his feet. Morton stopped — glared at him with 
clenched hands and a smiling lip — sprung over his 
prostrate form, and bounded to his home. 

He slackened his pace as he neared the house, and 
looked behind ; but Beaufort had not followed him. He 
entered the house, and found Sidney in the room, with a 
countenance so much more gay than that he had lately 
worn, that, absorbed as he was in thought and passion, 
it yet did not fail to strike him. 

“What has pleased you, Sidney?” 

The child smiled. 

“Ah ! it is a secret — I was not to tell you. But I’m 
sure you are not the naughty boy he says you are.” 


256 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ He ! — who ? ” 

“ Don’t look so angry, Philip : you frighten me ! ” 

“And you torture me. Who could malign one brother 
to the other ? ” 

“ Oh ! it was all meant very kindly — there’s been such 
a nice, dear, good gentleman hei e, and he cried when he 
saw me, and said he knew dear mamma. Well, and he 
has promised to take me home with him and give me a 
pretty pony — as pretty — as pretty — oh, as pretty as it 
can be got ! And he is to call again and tell me more : 
I think he is a fairy, Philip.” 

“ Did he say that he was to take me, too, Sidney ? ” said 
Morton, seating himself, and looking very pale. At that 
question, Sidney hung his head. 

“No, brother — he says you won’t go, and that you 
are a bad boy — and that you associate with wicked 
people — and that you want to keep me shut up here and 
not let any one be good to me. But I told him I did 
did not believe that — yes, indeed, I told him so.” 

And Sidney endeavored caressingly to withdraw the 
hands. that his brother placed before his face. 

Morton started up, and walked hastily to and fro the 
room. “ This,” thought he, “is another emissary of the 
Beauforts — perhaps the lawyer : they will take him from 
me — *the last thing left to love and hope for. I will foil 
them.” — “ Sidney,” he said aloud ; “ we must go hence 
to-day, this very hour — nay, instantly.” 

“ What ! away from this nice good gentleman ? ” 

“ Curse him ! yes, away from him. Do not cry — it is 
of no use — you must go.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


257 


Thif was said more harshly than Philip had ever yet 
spoken to Sidney ; and when he had said it, he left the 
room to settle with the landlady, and to pack up their 
scanty effects. In another hour, the brothers had turned 
their backs on the town. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ I’ll carry thee 

In sorrow’s arms to welcome Misery.” 

Heywood’s Duchess of Suffolk. 

“Who’s here besides foul weather?” — Shakspkare: Lear. 

The sun was as bright, and the sky as calm during this 
journey of the orphans, as in the last. They avoided, as 
before, the main roads, and their way lay through land- 
scapes that might have charmed a Gainsborough’s eye. 
Autumn scattered its last hues of gold over the various 
foliage, and the poppy glowed from the hedges, and the 
wild convolvuluses, here and there, still gleamed on the 
way-side with a parting smile. 

At times, over the sloping stubbles, broke the sound 
of the sportsman’s gun ; and ever and anon, by stream 
and sedge, they startled the shy wild fowl, just come from 
the far lands, nor yet settled in the new haunts too soon 
to be invaded. 

But there was no longer in the travellers the same 
hearts that had made light of hardship and fatigue. Sid- 
22 * R 


y 


253 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

ney was no longer flying from a harsh master, and his, 
step was not elastic with the energy of fear that looked 
behind, and of hope that smiled before. He was going a 
toilsome, weary journey, he knew not why nor whither ; 
just, too, when he had made a friend, whose soothing 
words haunted his childish fancy. He was displeased 
with Philip, and in sulleh and silent thoughtfulness slowly 
plodded behind him ; and Morton himself was gloomy 
and knew not where in the world to seek a future. 

They arrived at dusk at a small inn, not so far distant 
from the town they had left as Morton could have wished ; 
but the days were shorter than in their first flight. 

They were shown into a small sanded parlor, which 
Sidney eyed with great disgust; nor did he seem more 
pleased with the hacked and jagged leg of cold mutton 
which was all that the hostess set before them for supper. 
Philip in vain endeavored to cheer him up, and ate to set 
him the example. He felt relieved when, under the 
auspices of a good-looking, good-natured chambermaid, 
Sidney retired to rest, and he was left in the parlor to 
his own meditations. Hitherto it had been a happy thing 
for Morton that he had some one dependent on him ; that 
feeling had given him perseverance, patience, fortitude 
and hope. But now, dispirited and sad, he felt rather 
the horror of being responsible for a human life, without 
seeing the means to discharge the trust. It was clear, 
even to his experience, that he was not likely to find 
another employer as facile as Mr. Stubmore ; and where rer 
he went, he felt as if his Destiny stalked at his back. He 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


259 


took out his little fortune and spread it on the table, 
counting it over and over ; it had remained pretty sta- 
tionary since his service with Mr. Stubmore, for Sidney 
had swallowed up the wages of his hire. While thus 
employed, the door opened, and the chambermaid, show- 
ing in a gentleman, said, “We have no other room, sir.” 

“ Yery well, then, — I’m not particular ; a tumbler of 
braundy-and-water, stiffish, cold — without, the newspaper 
— and a cigar : You’ll excuse smoking, sir ?” 

Philip looked up from his hoard, and Captain de 
Burgh Smith stood before him. 

“ Ah ! ” said the latter, “ well met ! ” And closing the 
door, he took off his great-coat, seated himself near Philip, 
and bent both his eyes with considerable wistfulness on 
the neat rows into which Philip’s bank-notes, sovereigns, 
and shillings, were arrayed. 

“ Pretty little sum for pocket-money ; caush in hand 
goes a great way, properly invested. You must have 
been very lucky. Well, so I suppose you are surprised 
to see me here without my pheaton ? ” 

“I wish I had never seen you at all,” replied Philip, 
uncourteously, and restoring his money to his pocket; 
“ your fraud upon Mr. Stubmore, and your assurance 
that you knew me, have sent me adrift upon the world ” 
“ What’s one man’s meat is another man’s poison,” 
said the captain, philosophically: “no use fretting, care 
Killed a cat. I am as badly off as you ; for, hang me, if 
there was not a Bow Street runner in the town. I caught 
his eye fixed on me like a gimblet : so I bolted — went te 




260 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

N , left my pheaton and groom there for the present, 

and have doubled back, to bauffle pursuit, and cut across 
the country. You recollect that noice girl we saw in 
the coach ; ’gad, I served her spouse that is to be i 
praetty trick ! Borrowed his money under pretence of 
investing it in the New Grand Anti-Dry-Bot Company ; 
cool hundred — it’s only just gone, sir.” 

Here the chambermaid entered with the brandy-and- 
water, the newspaper, and cigar, — the captain lighted 
the last, took a deep sup from the beverage, and said, 
gaily : — 

“Well, now, let us join fortunes ; w» are both, as you 
say, ‘adrift.’ Best way to staund the breeze is to unite 
the caubles.” 

Philip shook his head, and, displeased with his com- 
panion, sought his pillow. He took care to put his 
money under his head, and to lock his door. 

The brothers started at day-break ; Sidney was even 
more discontented than on the previous day. The weather 
was hot and oppressive they rested for some hours at 
noon, and in the cool of the evening renewed their way. 
Philip had made up his mind to steer for a town in the 
thick of a hunting district, where he hoped his equestrian 
Eapacities might again befriend him ; and their path now 
lay through a chain of vast dreary commons, which gave 
them at least the advantage to skirt the road-side un- 
observed. But, somehow or other, either Philip had been 
misinformed as to an inn where he had proposed to pass 
the night, or he had missed it ; for the clouds darkened. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


261 


and the sun went down, and no vestige of human habita- 
tion was discernible. Sidney, foot-sore and querulous, 
began to weep, and declare that he could stir no further ; 
and while Philip, whose iron frame defied fatigue, com- 
passionately paused to rest his brother, a low roll of 
thunder broke upon the gloomy air. “There will be a 
storm,” said he anxiously. “Come on — pray, Sidney, 
come on.” 

“ It is so cruel in you, brother Philip,” replied Sidney, 
sobbing. “I wish I had never — never gone with you.” 

A flash of lightning, that illuminated the whole heav- 
ens, lingered round Sidney’s pale face as he spoke ; and 
Philip threw himself instinctively on the child, as if to 
protect him even from the wrath of the unshelterable 
flame. Sidney, hushed and terrified, clung to his brother’s 
breast ; after a pause, he silently consented to resume 
their journey. But now the storm came near and nearer 
to the wanderers. The darkness grew rapidly more in- 
tense, save when the lightning lit up heaven and earth 
alike with intolerable lustre. And when at length the 
rain began to fall in merciless and drenching torrents, 
even Philip’s brave heart failed him. How could he ask 
Sidney to proceed, when they could scarcely see an inch 
before them ? — all that could now be done was to gain 
the high-road, and hope for some passing conveyance. 
With fits and starts, and by the glare of the lightning, 
they attained their object ; and stood at last on the great 
broad Thoroughfare, along which, since the day when 
the Roman carved it from the waste, Misery hath plodded, 
and Luxury rolled, their common way. 


262 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Philip had stripped handkerchief, coat, vest, all to 
shelter Sidney ; and he felt a kind of strange pleasure 
through the dark, even to hear Sidney’s voice wail and 
moan. But that voice grew more languid and faint — it 
ceased — Sidney’s weight hung heavy — heavier on the 
fostering arm. • 

“ For Heaven’s sake, speak ! — speak, Sidney ! — only 
one word — I will carry you in my arms ! ” 

“ I think I am dying,” replied Sidney, in a low mur- 
mur ; “I am so tired and worn out, I can go no further 

— I must lie here.” And he sunk at once upon the reek- 
ing grass beside the road. At this time the rain gradu- 
ally relaxed, the clouds broke away — a grey light suc- 
ceeded to the darkness — the lightning was mone distant ; 
and the thunder rolled onward in its awful path. Kneel- 
ing on the ground, Philip supported his brother in his 
arms, and cast his pleading eyes upward to the softening- 
terrors of the sky. A star, a solitary star — broke out 
for one moment, as if to smile comfort upon him, and 
then vanished. But lo ! in the distance there suddenly 
gleamed a red, steady light, like that in some solitary 
window ; it was no will-o’-the-wisp, it was too stationary 

— human shelter was then nearer than he had thought 
for. He pointed to the light, and whispered, “ Rouse 
yourself, one struggle more — it cannot be far off.” 

“ It is impossible — I cannot stir,” answered Sidney: 
and a sudden flash of lightning showed his countenance, 
ghastly, as if with the damps of Death. What could the 
brother do ? — stay there, and sev' the boy perish before 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


263 


his eyes ? — leave him on the road, and fly to the friendly 
light ? The last plan was the sole one left, yet he shrunk 
from it in greater terror than the first. Was that a step 
that he heard across the road ? He held his breath to 
listen — a form became dimly visible — it approached. 

Philip shouted aloud. 

“ What now ? ” answered the voice, and it seemed 
familiar to Morton’s ear. He sprang forward ; and put- 
ting his face close to the wayfarer, thought to recognise 
the features of Captain de Burgh Smith. The captain 
whose eyes were yet more accustomed to the dark, made 
the first overture. 

“ Why, my lad, it is you then ! ‘ Gad, you froightened 
me ! ” 

Odious as this man had hitherto been to Philip, he was 
as welcome to him as daylight now ; he grasped his hand, 

— “My brother — a child — is here, dying, I fear, with 
cold and fatigue, he cannot stir. Will you stay with him 

— support him — but for a few moments, while I make 
to yon light ? See, I have money — plenty of money ? ” 

“ My good lad, it is very ugly work staying here at 
this hour : still — where’s the choild ? ” 

“Here, here! make haste, raise him! that’s right! 
God bless you ! I shall be back ere you think me gone.” 

He sprang from the road, and plunged through the 
heath, the furze, the rank glistening pools, straight to 
wards the light — as the swimmer towards the shore. 

The captain, though a rogue, was human ; and when 
life — an innocent life — is at stake, even a rogue’s heart 


264 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


rises up from its weedy bed. He muttered a few oaths, 
it i§ true, but he held the child in his arms ; and, taking 
out a little tin case, poured some brandy down Sidney’s 
throat ; and then, by way of company, down his own. 
The cordial revived the boy ; he opened his eyes, and 
said, “I think I can go on now, Philip.” 

We must return to Arthur Beaufort. He was natu- 
rally, though gentle, a person of high spirit and not with- 
out pride. He rose from the ground with bitter, resent- 
ful feelings and a blushing cheek, and went, his way to 
the hotel. Here he found Mr. Spencer just returned 
from his visit to Sidney. Enchanted with the soft and 
endearing manners of his lost Catherine’s son, and deeply 
affected with the resemblance the child bore to the mo- 
ther as he had seen her last at the gay and rosy age of 
fair sixteen, his description of the younger brother drew 
Beaufort’s indignant thoughts from the elder. He cor 
dially concurred with Mr. Spencer in the wish to save 
one so gentle from the domination of one so fierce ; and 
this, after all, was the child Catherine had most strongly 
commended to him. She had said little of the elder ; 
perhaps she had been aware of his ungracious and un- 
tractable nature, and, as it seemed to Arthur Beaufort, 
his predilections for a coarse and low career. 

“ Yes,” said he, “ this boy, then, shall console me for 
the perverse brutality of the other. He shall indeed 
drink of my cup, and eat of my bread, and be to me as 
a brother.” 

“ What ! ” said Mr. Spencer, changing countenance, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


265 


“you do not intend to take Sidney to live with you f I 
meant him for my son — my adopted son.” 

“ No ; generous as you are,” said Arthur, pressing his 
hand, “this charge devolves on me — it is my right. I 
am the orphan’s relation — his mother consigned him to 
me. But he shall be taught to love you not the less.” 

Mr. Spencer was silent. He could not bear the thought 
of losing Sidney as an inmate of his cheerless home, a 
tender relic of his early love. From that moment he 
began to contemplate the possibility of securing Sidney 
to himself, unknown to Beaufort. 

The plans both of Arthur and Spencer were inter- 
rupted by the sudden retreat of the brothers. They 
determined to depart different ways in search of them. 
Spencer, as the more helpless of the two, obtained the 
aid of Mr. Sharp ; Beaufort departed with the lawyer. 

Two travellers, in a hired barouche, were slowly drag- 
ged by a pair of jaded posters along the commons I have 
just described. 

“I think,” said one, “that the storm is very much 
abated ; heigho ! what an unpleasant night ! ” 

“TJnkimmon ugly, sir,” answered the other ; “and an 
awful long stage, eighteen miles. These here remote 
places are quite behind the age, sir — quite. However, I 
think we shall kitch them now.” 

“ J am very much afraid of that eldest boy, Sharp. 
He seems a dreadful vagabond.” 

“ You see, sir, quite hand in glove with Dashing Jerry ; 
met in the same inn last night — preconcerted, you may 
I. — 23 


266 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


pe quite sure. It would be the best day’s job I have 
ilone this many a day to save that ’ere little fellow trom 
being corrupted. You sees he is just of a size to be 
useful to these bad karakters. If they took to burglary, 
he would be a treasure to them — slip him through a 
pane of glass like a ferret, sir.” 

“ Don’t talk of it, Sharp,” said Mr. Spencer, with a 
groan ; “ and recollect, if we get hold of him, that you 
are not to say a word to Mr. Beaufort.” 

“ I understand, sir ; and I always goes with the gem- 
man who behaves most like a gemman.” 

Here a loud halloo was heard close by the horses’ 
heads. 

“Good heavens, if that is a foot-pad ! ” said Mr 
Spencer, shaking violently. 

“ Lord, sir, I have my barkers with me. Who’s 
there ? ” 

The barouche stopped — a man came to the window. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” said the stranger ; “ but there is a 
poor boy here so tired and ill that I fear he will never 
reach the next town, unless. you will koindly give him a 
lift.” 

“A poor boy ! ” said Mr. Spencer, poking his head 
over the head of Mr. Sharp. “ Where ? ” 

“ If you would just drop him at the King’s Awrms, it 
would be a chaurity,” said the man. 

Sharp pinched Mr. Spencer on the shoulder, “ That’s 
Dashing Jerry ; I’ll get out.” So saying, he opened the 
door, jumped into the road, and presently re-appeared 
tfith the lost and welcome Sidney in his arms “ Ben’t 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 2t)7 

this the boy ?” he whispered to Mr. Spencer ; and, taking 
the lamp from the carriage, he raised it to the child’s 
face. 

“ It is ! it is ! God be thanked ! ” exclaimed the worthy 
man. 

“ Will you leave him at the King’s Awrms ? — we shall 
be there in an hour or two,” cried the Captain. 

“We! Who’s we?” said Sharp, gruffly. 

“Why, myself and the choild’s brother.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Sharp, raising the lantern to his own face ; 
“you knows me, I think, Master Jerry? Let me kitch 
you agin, that’s all. And give my compliments to your 
’sociate, and say, if he prosecutes this here hurchin any 
more, we’ll settle his bizness for him ; and so take a hint 
and make yourself scarce, old boy ! ” 

With that Mr. Sharp jumped into the barouche, and 
bade the postboy drive on as fast as he could. 

Ten minutes after this abduction, Philip, followed by 
two laborers, with a barrow, a lantern, and two blankets, 
returned from the hospitable farm to which the light had 
conducted him. The spot where he had left Sidney, and 
which he knew by a neighboring mile-stone, was vacant ; 
he shouted an alarm, and the Captain answered from the 
distance of some three-score yards. Philip came to him. 
“ Where is my brother ? ” 

“ Gone away in a barouche and pair. Devil take me 
if I understaund it.” And the Captain proceeded to 
give a confused account of what had passed. 

“ My brother ! my brotner ! they have torn thee from 
me, then !” cried Philip, and he fell to the earth insensible. 


268 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


\ 

CHAPTER XI 

“ Vous me rendrez mon fr&re ! ” * 

Casimer Delavigne : Les Unfans cT Edouard. 

One evening, a week after this event, a wild, tattered, 
haggard youth knocked at the door of Mr. Robert Beau- 
fort. 

The porter slowly presented himself. 

“ Is your master at home ? I must see him instantly.” 

“ That’s more than you can, my man ; my master does 
not see the like of you this time of night,” replied the 
porter, eyeing the ragged apparition before him, with 
great disdain. 

“ See me, he must and shall,” replied the young man ; 
and as the porter blocked up the entrance, he grasped 
his collar with a hand of iron, swung him, huge as he 
was, aside, and strode into the spacious hall. 

“ Stop ! stop ! ” cried the porter, recovering himself. 
‘‘James! John! here’s a go!” 

Mr. Robert Beaufort had been back in town several 
days. Mrs. Beaufort, who was waiting his return from 
his club, was in the dining-room. Hearing a noise in the 
hall, she opened the door, and saw the strange grim figure 
I have described, advancing towards her. ‘‘Who are 
you ? ” she said ; “ what do you want ? ” 

* You shall restore me my brother* 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


269 


“ I am Philip Morton. Who are you ? ” 

“ My husband,” said Mrs. Beaufort, shrinking into the 
parlor, while Morton followed her and closed the door, 
“my husband, Mr. Beaufort, is not at home.” 

“You are Mrs. Beaufort, then ! Well, you can under- 
stand me I want my brother. He has been basely reft 
from me. Tell me where he is, and I will forgive all. 
Bestore him to me, and I will bless you and yours.” And 
Philip fell on his knees and grasped the train of her gown. 

“ I know nothing of your brother, Mr. Morton,” cried 
Mrs. Beaufort, surprised and alarmed. “Arthur, whom 
we expect every day, writes us word that all search for 
him has been in vain.” 

“ Ha ! you admit the search ? ” cried Morton, rising 
and clenching his hands. “And who else but you or 
yours would have parted brother and brother ? Answer 
me where he is. No subterfuge, madam : I am desperate ! ” 
Mrs. Beaufort, though a woman of that worldly cold- 
ness and indifference, which, on ordinary occasions, supply 
the place of courage, was extremely terrified by the tone 
and mien of her rude guest. She laid her hand on the 
bell ; but Morton seized her arm, and, holding it sternly, 
said, while his dark eyes shot fire through the glimmering 
room “ I will not stir hence till you have told me. Will 
you reject my gratitude, my blessing ? Beware ! Again, 
where have you hid my brother?” 

At that instant the door opened, and.Mr. Robert Beau- 
fort entered. The lady, with a shriek of joy, wrenched 
herself from Philip’s grasp, and flew to her husband. 

23 * 


270 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Save me from this ruffian ! ” she said, witn an hyste- 
rical sob. 

Mr. Beaufort, who had heard from Blackwell strange 
accounts of Philip’s obdurate perverseness, vile associates, 
and unredeemable character, was roused from his usual 
timidity by the appeal of his wife. 

“ Insolent reprobate 1 ” he said, advancing to Philip ; 
“ after all the absurd goodness of my son and myself ; 
after rejecting all our offers, and persisting in your mise- 
rable and vicious conduct, how dare you presume to force 
yourself into this house ? Begone, or I will send for the 
constables to remove you ! ” 

“ Man, man,” cried Philip, restraining the fury that 
shook him from head to foot, “ I care not for your threats 
* — I scarcely hear your abuse — your son, or yourself, has 
stolen away my brother : tell me only where he is ; let 
me see him once more. Do not drive me hence, without 
one word of justice, of pity. I implore you — on my knees 
I implore you — yes, I, / implore you, Robert Beaufort, 
to have mercy on your brother’s son. Where is Sidney ? ” 

Like all mean and cowardly men, Robert Beaufort 
was rather encouraged than softened by Philip’s abrupt 
humility. 

“ I know nothing of your brother ; and if this is not 
all some villanous trick — which it may be — I am heartily 
rejoiced that he, poor child ! is rescued from the contami- 
nation of such a companion,” answered Beaufort. 

“ I am at your feet still ; again, for the last time, cling- 
ing to you a suppliant : I pray you to tell me the truth.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 271 

Mr. Beaufort, more and more exasperated by Morton’s 
forbearance, raised his hand as if to strike ; when, at that 
moment, one hitherto unobserved — one who, terrified by 
the scene she had witnessed but could not comprehend, 
had slunk into a dark corner of the room, — now came 
from her retreat : And a child’s soft voice was heard, 
saying,— 

“ Do not strike him, papa ! — let him have his brother ! ” 

Mr. Beaufort’s arm fell to his side : kneeling before him, 
and by the outcast’s side, was his own young daughter ; 
she had crept into the room unobserved, when her father 
entered. Through the dim shadows, relieved only by the 
red and fitful gleam of the fire, he saw her fair meek face 
looking up wistfully at his own, with tears of excitement, 
and perhaps of pity — for children have a quick insight 
into the reality of grief in those not far removed from 
their own years — glistening in her soft eyes. Philip looked 
round bewildered, and he saw. that face which seemed to 
him, at such a time, like the face of an angel. 

“ Hear her ! ” he murmured : “ oh, hear her ; For her 
sake, do not' sever one orphan from the other !.” 

“ Take away that child, Mrs. Beaufort,” cried Robert, 
angrily. “ Will you let her disgrace herself thus ? And 
you, sir, begone from this roof ; and when you can ap- 
proach me with due respect, I will give you, as I said I 
would, the means to get an honest living 1” 

Philip rose ; Mrs. Beaufort had already led away her 
daughter, and she took that opportunity of sending in 
the servants : their forms filled up the doorway. 


272 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

••Will you go?” continued Mr. Beaufort, more and 
more emboldened, as he saw the menials at hand, “ or 
shall they expel you ? ” 

“ It is enough, sir,” said Philip, with a sudden calm and 
dignity that surprised, and almost awed his uncle. “ My 
father, if the dead yet watch over the living, has seen and 
heard you. There will come a day for justice. Out of 
my path, hirelings ! ” 

He waived his arm, and the menials shrunk back at his 
tread, stalked across the inhospitable hall, and vanished. 

When he had gained the street, he turned and looked 
up at the house. His dark and hollow eyes, gleaming 
through the long and raven hair that fell profusely over 
his face, had in them an expression of menace almost pre- 
ternatural, from its settled calmness ; the wild and untu- 
tored majesty which, through rags and squalor, never 
deserted his form, as it never does the forms of men in 
whom the will is strong and the sense of injustice deep ; 
the outstretched arm ; the haggard, but noble features ; 
the bloomless and scathed youth ; all gave to his features 
and his stature an aspect awful in its sinister and voiceless 
wrath. There he stood a moment, like one to whom woe 
and wrong had given a Prophet’s power, guiding the eye 
of the unforgetful Fate to the roof of the Oppressor. 
Then slowly, and with a half smile, he turned away, and 
strode through the streets till he arrived at one of the 
narrow lanes that intersect the more equivocal quarters 
of the huge city. He stopped at the private entrance of 
a small pawnbroker’s shop ; the door was opened by a 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


273 


slipshod boy ; be ascended the dingy stairs till he came 
to the second floor ; and there, in a small back room, he 
found Captain de Burgh Smith, seated before a table with 
a couple of candles on it, smoking a cigar, and playing 
at cards by himself. 

•'‘Well, what news of your brother, Bully Phil?” 

“ None : they will reveal nothing.” 

“Do you give him up ? ” 

“ Never 1 My hope now is in you.” 

“Well, I thought you would be driven to come to me, 
and I will do something for you that I should not loike 
to do for myself. I told you that I knew the Bow Street 
runner who was in the barouche. I willffind him out — 
Heaven knows that is easily done ; and, if you can pay 
well, you will get your news.” 

“ You shall have all I possess, if you restore my brother. 
See what it is, one hundred pounds — it was his fortune, 
It is useless to me without him. There, take fifty now, 
an d if ” 

Philip stopped, for his voice trembled too much to 
allow him farther speech. Captain Smith thrust the notes 
into his pocket, and said — 

“We’ll consider it settled ” 

Captain Smith fulfilled his promise. He saw the Bow 
Street officer. Mr. Sharp had been bribed too high by 
the opposite party to tell tales, and he willingly encour- 
aged the suspicion that Sidney was under the care of the 
Beauforts. He promised, however, for the sake of ten 
23 * 


S 


214 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


guineas, to procure Philip a letter from Sidney himself. 
This was all he would undertake. 

Philip was satisfied. At the end of another week, Mr. 
Sharp transmitted to the Captain a letter, which he, in 
his turn, gave to Philip. It ran thus, in Sidney’s own 
sprawling hand : — 

“Dear Brother Philip, — I am told you wish to 
know how I am, and therfore take up my pen, and asure 
you that I write all out of my own head. I am very 
Comfortable and happy — much more so than I have been 
since poor deir mama died ; so I beg you won’t vex your- 
self about me : # and pray don’t try and Find me out, For 
I would not go with you again for the world. I am so 
much better Off here. I wish you would be a good boy, 
and leave off your Bad ways ; for I am sure, as every one 
says, I don’t know what would have become of me if I 

had staid with you. Mr. [the Mr. half scratched 

out] the gentleman I am with, says if you turn out Pro- 
perly, he will be a friend to you , Too ; but he advises you 
to go, like a Good boy, to Arthur Beaufort, and ask his 
pardon for the past, and then Arthur will be very kind to 
you. I send you a great Big sum of 20Z., and the gen- 
tleman says he would send more, only it might make you 
naughty, and set up. I go to church now every Sunday, 
and read good books and always pray that God may open 
your eyes. I have such a Nice pony, with such a long 
tale. So no more at present from your affectionate 
brother. Sidney Morton. 

“ Oct. 8, 18—. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


275 


“Pray, pray don’t come after me. Any more You 
know I neerly died of it, but for this deir good gentleman 
I am with.” 

So this, then, was the crowning reward of all his suf- 
ferings and all his love. There was the letter, evidently 
undictated, with its errors of orthography, and in the 
child’s rough scrawl ; the serpent’s tooth pierced to the 
heart, and left there its most lasting venom. 

“ I have done with him for ever,” said Philip, brushing 
away the bitter tears. “ I will molest him no farther ; I 
care no more to pierce this mystery. Better for him as 
it is — he is happy 1 Well, well, and I — I will never care 
for a human being again.” 

He bowed his head over his hands ; and when he rose, 
his heart felt to him like stone. It seemed as if Con- 
science herself had fled from his soul on the wings of de- 
parted Love. 


276 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


CHAPTER XII. 

« But you have found the mountain’s top — there sit 
On the calm flourishing head of it; 

And whilst with wearied steps we upward go, 

See Us and Clouds below.” — Cowley. 

It was true that Sidney was happy in his new home, 
and thither we must now trace him. 

On reaching the town where the travellers in the ba- 
rouche had been requested to leave Sidney, “ The King’s 
Arms” was precisely the inn eschewed by Mr. Spencer. 
While the horses were being changed, he summoned the 
surgeon of the town to examine the child, who had 
already much recovered ; and by stripping his clothes, 
wrapping him in warm blankets, and administering cor- 
dials, he was permitted to reach another stage, so as to 
baffle pursuit that night ; and in three days Mr. Spencer 
had placed his new charge with his maiden sisters, a 
hundred and fifty miles from the spot where he had been 
found. He would not take him to his own home yet. 
He feared the claims of Arthur Beaufort. . He artfully 
wrote to that gentleman, stating that he had abandoned 
the chase of Sidney in despair, and desiring to know if he 
had discovered him ; and a bribe of 300Z. to Mr. Sharp, 
with t candid exposition of his reasons for secreting Sid- 
ney — reasons in which the worthy officer professed to 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


277 


sympathize — secured the discretion of his ally. But he 
would not deny himself the pleasure of being in the same 
nouse with Sidney, and was therefore for some months 
the guest of his sisters. At length he heard that young 
Beaufort had been ordered abroad for his health, and he 
then deemed it safe to transfer his new idol to his Lare . s 
by the lakes. During this interval the current of the 
younger Morton’s life had indeed flowed through flowers 
At his age the cares of females were almost a want as 
well as a luxury, and the sisters spoiled and petted him 
as much as any elderly nymphs in Cytherea ever petted 
Cupid. They were good, excellent, high-nosed, flat- 
bosomed spinsters, sentimentally fond of their brother 
whom they called “ the poet,” and dotingly attached to 
children. The cleanness, the quiet, the good cheer of 
their neat abode, all tended to revive and invigorate the 
spirits of their young guest, and every one there seemed 
to vie which should love him the most. Still his especial 
favorite was Mr. Spencer : for Spencer never went out 
without bringing back cakes and toys ; and Spencer gave 
him his pony ; and Spencer rode a little crop-eared nag 
by his side ; and Spencer, in short, was associated with 
his every comfort and caprice. He told them his little 
history ; and when he said how Philip had left him alone 
for long hours together, and how Philip had forced him 
to his last and nearly fatal journey, the old maids groaned, 
and the old bachelor sighed, and they all cried in a breath, 
that “Philip was a very wicked boy.” It was not only 
tneir obvious policy to detach him from his brother, but it 
I.— 24 


278 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


was their sincere conviction that they did right to do so. 
Sidney began, it is true, by taking Philip’s part ; but his 
mind was ductile, and he still looked back with a shudder 
to the hardships he had gone through : and so by little 
and little he learned to forget all the endearing and fos- 
tering love Philip had evinced to him ; to connect his name 
with dark and mysterious fears ; to repeat thanksgivings 
to Providence that he was saved from him ; and to hope 
that they might never meet again. In fact, when Mr. 
Spencer learned from Sharp that it was through Captain 
Smith, the swindler, that application had been made by 
Philip for news of his brother, and having also learned 
before, from the same person, that Philip had been impli- 
cated in the sale of a horse, swindled, if not stolen, — he 
saw every additional reason to widen the stream that 
flowed between the wolf and the lamb. The older Sidney 
grew, the better he comprehended and appreciated the 
motives of his protector — for he was brought up in a 
formal school of propriety and ethics, and his mind natu- 
rally revolted from all images of violence or fraud. Mr. 
Spencer changed both the Christian and the surname of 
his protege , in order to elude the search whether of Philip, 
the Mortons, or the Beauforts, and Sidney passed for his 
nephew by a younger brother who had died in India. 

So there, by the calm banks of the placid lake, amidst 
the fairest landscapes of the Island Carden, the youngest 
born of Catherine passed his tranquil days. The monot- 
ony of the retreat did not fatigue a spirit which, as he 
grew up, found occupation in books, music, poetry, and 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


279 


the elegances of the cultivated, if quiet life, within his 
reach. To -the rough past he looked back as to an evil 
dream, in which the image of Philip stood dark and 
threatening, itis brother’s name, as he grew older, he 
rarely mentioned ; and if he did volunteer it to Mr. Spen- 
cer, the bloom on his cheek grew paler. The sweetness 
of his manners, his fair face and winning smile, still con- 
tinued to secure him love, and to screen from the common 
eye whatever of selfishness yet lurked in his nature. And, 
indeed, that fault in so serene a career, and with friends 
so attached, was seldom called into action. So thus was 
he severed from both the protectors, Arthur and Philip, 
to whom poor Catherine had bequeathed him. 

By a perverse and strange mystery, they, to whom the 
charge was most intrusted, were the very persons who 
were forbidden to redeem it. On our death-beds when we 
think we have provided for those we leave behind — should 
we lose the last smile that gilds the solemn agony, if we 
could look one year into the Future ? 

Arthur Beaufort, after an ineffectual search for Sidney, 
heard, on returning to his home, no unexaggerated nar- 
rative of Philip’s visit, and listened, with deep resentment, 
to his mother’s distorted account of the language addressed 
to her. It is not very surprising, that, with all his romantic 
generosity, he felt sickened and revolted at violence that 
seemed to him without excuse. Though not a revengeful 
character, he had not that meekness which never resents. 
He looked upon Philip Morton as upon one rendered in- 
corrigible by bad passions and evil company. Still Cathe< 
rine’s last bequest, and Philip’s note to him the Unknown 


280 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Comforter, often recurred to him, and he would have will- 
ingly yet aided had Philip been thrown in his way. But 
as it was, when he looked around, and saw the examples 
of that charity that begins at home, in which the world 
abounds, he felt as if he had done his duty ; and prosperity 
having, though it could not harden his heart, still sapped 
the habits of perseverance, so by little and little the image 
of the dying Catherine, and the thought of her sons, faded 
from his remembrance. And for this there was the more 
excuse after the receipt of an anonymous letter, which re- 
lieved all his apprehensions on behalf of Sidney. The 
letter was short, and stated simply that Sidney Morton 
had found a friend who would protect him throughout 
life ; but who would not scruple to apply to Beaufort if 
ever he needed his assistance. So one son, and that the 
youngest and the best-loved, was safe. And the other, 
had he not chosen his own career ? Alas, poor Catherine ! 
when you fancied that Philip was the one sure to force 
his way into fortune, and Sidney the one most helpless, 
how ill did you judge of the human heart ! It was that 
very strength in Philip’s nature which tempted the winds 
that scattered the blossoms, and shook the stem to its 
roots; while the lighter and frailer nature bent to the 
gale, and bore transplanting to a happier soil. If a pa- 
rent read these pages, let him pause and think well on 
the characters of his children ; let him at once fear and 
hope the most for the one whose passions and whose tem- 
per lead to a struggle with the world. That same world 
is a tough wrestler, and has a bear’s gripe for the poor. 

Meanwhile, Arthur Beaufort’s own complaints, which 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


281 


grew serious and menaced consumption, recalled his 
thoughts more and more every day to himself. He was 
compelled to abandon his career at the University, and 
to seek for health in the softer breezes of the South. His 
parents accompanied him to Nice ; and when, at the end 
of a few months, he was restored to health, the desire of 
t'ravel seized the mind, and attracted the fancy, of the 
young heir. His father and mother, satisfied with his 
recovery, and not unwilling that he should acquire the 
polish of Continental intercourse, returned to England ; 
and young Beaufort, with gay companions and munificent 
income, already courted, spoiled, and flattered, commenced 
his tour with the fair climes of Italy. 

So, 0 dark mystery of the Moral World ! — so, unlike 
the order of the External Universe, glide together, side 
by side, the shadowy steeds of Night and Morning. 
Examine life in its own world ; confound not that world, 
the inner one, the practical one, wdth the more visible, 
yet airier and less substantial system, doing homage to 
the sun, to whose throne, afar in the infinite space, the 
human heart has no wings to flee. In life, the mind and 
the circumstance give the true seasons, and regulate the 
darkness and the light. Of two men standing on the 
same foot of earth, the one revels in the joyous noon, the 
other shudders in the solitude of night. For Hope and 
Fortune the day-star is ever shining. For Care and 
Penury, Night changes not with the ticking of the clock, 
nor with the shadow on the dial. Morning for the heir 
night for the houseless, and Hod’s eye over both. 

24 * 


BOOK THIRD. 


"IBerge lagen mir ini 5H3cgc 5 

Sttronie fyemutlen meinen Sup: 

Ue be r ®d)liinbe bant’ id) Siege 
• ffiruden buid) ben ivilben Stuji.” 

Schiller : Der Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ The knight of arts and industry, 

And his achievements fair.” 

Thomson’s Castle of Indolence : Explanatory Verse to Canto II. 

In a popular and respectable, but not very fashionable 
quartier in Paris, and in the tolerably broad and effective 

locale of the Rue , there might be seen, at the time 

I now treat of, a curious-looking building, that jutted 
out semi-circularly from the neighboring shops, with 
plaster pilasters and compo ornaments. The virtuosi of 
the quartier had discovered that the building was con- 
structed in imitation of an ancient temple in Rome ; this 
erection, then fresh and new, reached only to the entresol. 
The pilasters were painted light green, and gilded in the 
cornices, while, surmounting the architrave, were three 
little statues — one held a torch, another a bow, and a 
third a bag ; they were therefore rumored, I know not 

( 282 ) 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


283 


with what justice, to be the artistical representatives of 
Hymen, Cupid, and Fortune. 

On the door was neatly engraved, on a brass-plate, the 
following inscription : — 

“ Monsieur Love, Anglais, X l’entresol. ” 

And if you had crossed the threshold, and mounted the 
stairs, and gained that mysterious story inhabited by 
Monsieur Love, you would have seen, upon another door 
to the right, another epigraph, informing those interested 
in the inquiry that the bureau of M. Love was open daily 
from nine in the morning to four in the afternoon. 

The office of M. Love — for office it was, and of a nature 
not unfrequently designated in the “ petites affiches” of 
Paris — had been established about six months; and 
whether it was the popularity of the profession, or the 
shape of the shop, or the manners of M. Love himself, I 
cannot pretend to say, but certain it is that the Temple 
of Hymen — as M. Love classically termed it — had be- 
come exceedingly in vogue in the Faubourg St. . 

It was rumored that no less than nine marriages in the 
immediate neighborhood had been manufactured at this 
fortunate office, and that they had all turned out happily 
except one, in which the bride being sixty, and the bride- 
groom twenty-four, there had been -umors of domestic 
dissension ; but as the lady had been delivered — I mean 
of her husband, who had drowned himself in the Seine, 
about a month after the ceremony, things had turned out 
In the long run better than might have been expected, and 


284 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


the widow was so little disconcerted, that she had been 
seen to enter the office already — a circumstance that was 
greatly to the credit of Mr. Love. 

Perhaps the secret of Mr. Love’s success, and cf the 
marked superiority of his establishment in rank and popu- 
larity over similar ones, consisted in the spirit and liber- 
ality with which the business was conducted. He seemed 
resolved to destroy all formality between parties who 
might desire to draw closer to each other, and he hit 
upon the lucky device of a table < Vhote , very well managed 
and held twice a-week, and often followed by a soiree 
dansante ; so that, if they pleased, the aspirants to matri- 
monial happiness might become acquainted without gene. 
As he himself was a jolly, convivial fellow of much savoir 
vivre , it is astonishing how well he made these entertain- 
ments answer. Persons who had not seemed to take to 
each other in the first distant interview grew extremely 
enamored when the corks of the champagne — an extra 
of course in the abonnement — bounced against the wall. 
Added to this, Mr. Love took great pains to know the 
tradesmen in his neighborhood ; and, what with his jokes, 
his appearance of easy circumstances, and the fluency 
with which he spoke the language, he became an universal 
favorite. Many persons, who were uncommonly starch 
in general, and who professed to ridicule the bureau, saw 
nothing improper in dining at the table d'hote. To those 
who wished for secrecy he was said to be wonderfully 
discreet ; but there were others who did not affect to con- 
ceal their discontent at the single state : for the rest, t>9 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


285 


entertainments were so "contrived as never to shock the 
delicacy, while they always forwarded the suit. 

It was about eight o’clock in the evening, and Mr. 
Love was still seated at dinner, or rather at dessert, with 
a party of guests. His apartments, though small, were 
somewhat gaudily painted and furnished, and his dining- 
room was decorated cl la Turque. The party consisted 

— first, of a rich epicier , a widower, Monsieur Goupille 
by name, an eminent man in the Faubourg ; he was in 
his grand climacteric, but still belhomme ; wore a very 
well-made peruque of light auburn, with tight pantaloons, 
which contained a pair of very respectable calves ; and 
his white neckcloth and his large frill were washed and 
got up with especial care. Next to Monsieur Goupille 
sat a very demure and very spare* young lady of about 
two-and-thirty, who was said to have saved a fortune 

— Heaven knows how — in the family of a rich English 
milord, where she had officiated as governess ; she called 
herself Mademoiselle Adele de Courval, and was very 
particular about the de, and very melancholy about her 
ancestors. Monsieur Goupille generally put his finger 
through his peruque, and fell away a little on his left 
pantaloon when he spoke to Mademoiselle de Courval, 
and Mademoiselle de Courval generally pecked at her 
bouquet when she answered Monsieur Goupille. On the 
other side of this young lady sat a fine-looking fair man 

— M. Sovolofski, a Pole, buttoned up to the chin, and 
rather threadbare, though uncommonly neat. He was 
flanked by a little fat lady, who had been very pretty, and 


256 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


who kept a boarding-house, or pension, for the English, 
she herself being English, though long established in Paris. 
Rumor said she had been gay in her youth, and dropped 
in Paris by a Russian nobleman, with a very pretty settle- 
ment — she and the settlement having equally expanded 
by time and season : she was called Madame Beavor. On 
the other side of the table was a red-headed Englishman^ 
who spoke very little French ; who had been told that 
French ladies were passionately fond of light hair ; and 
who, having 2000Z. of his own, intended to quadruple 
that sum by a prudent marriage. Nobody knew what 
his family was, but his name was Higgins. His neighbor 
was an exceedingly tall, large-boned Frenchman, with a 
long nose and a red riband, who was much seen at Fras- 
cati’s, and had served under Napoleon. Then came 
another lady, extremely pretty, very piquante, and very 
gay, but past the premiere jeunesse, who ogled Mr. Love 
more than she did any of his guests : she was called 
Rosalie Caumartin, and was at the head of a large bon- 
bon establishment ; married, but her husband had gone 
four years ago to the Isle of France, and she was a little 
doubtful whether she might not be justly entitled to the 
privileges of a widow. Next to Mr. Love, in the place 
of honor, sat no less a person than the Yicomte de Yau- 
demont, a French gentleman, really well-born, but whose 
various excesses, added to his poverty, had not served to 
sustain that respect for his birth which he considered due 
to it. He had already been twice married ; once to an 
Englishwoman, who had -been decoyed by the title; by 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


287 


this lady, who died in childbed, he had one son ; a fact 
which he sedulously concealed from the world of Paris by 
keeping the unhappy boy — who was now some eighteen 
or nineteen years old — a perpetual exile in England. 
Monsieur de Y audemont did not wish to pass for more 
than thirty, and he considered that to produce a son of 
eighteen would be to make the lad a monster of ingrati- 
tude by giving the lie every hour to his own father ! In 
spite of this precaution the Vicomte found great difficulty 
in getting a third wife — especially as he had no actual 
and visible income ; was, not seamed, but ploughed up, 
with the small-pox; small of stature, and was considered 
more than un peu bete. He was, however, a prodigious 
dandy, and wore a lace frill and embroidered waistcoat. 
Mr. Love’s vis-d-vis was Mr. Birnie, an Englishman, a 
sort of assistant in the establishment, with a hard, dry, 
parchment face, and — a remarkable talent for silence. 

. The host himself was a splendid animal ; his vast chest 
seemed to occupy more space at the table than any four 
of his guests, yet he was not corpulent or unwieldy; he 
was dressed in black, wore a velvet stock, very high, and 
four gold studs glittered in his shirt-front ; he was bald 
to the crown, which made his forehead appear singularly 
lofty, and what hair he had left was a little greyish and 
curled ; his face was shaved smoothly, except a close- 
clipped mustache ; and his eyes, though small, were bright 
and piercing. Such was the party. 

" These are the best bons-bons I ever ate,” said Mr 
Love, glancing at Madame Caumartin. “ My fair friends, 
have compassion on the table of a poor bachelor. 


288 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


“ But you ought not to be a bachelor, Monsieur Lofe,” 
replied the fair Rosalie, with an arch look ; “ you who 
make others marry, should set the example.” 

“All in good time,” answered Mr. Love, nodding; 
“ one serves one’s customers to so much happiness that 
one has none left for one’s-self.” 

Here a loud explosion was heard. Monsieur Groupille 
had pulled one of the bon-bon crackers with Mademoiselle 
Adele. 

“ I’ve got the motto ! — no — Monsieur has it : I’m al- 
ways so unlucky,” said the gentle Adele. 

The epicier solemnly unrolled the little slip of paper ; 
the print was very small, and he longed to take out his 
spectacles, but he thought that would make him look old. 
However, he spelled through the motto with some diffi- 
ulty : — 

‘ Comme elle fait soumettre un cceur, 

En refusant son doux hommage, 

On peut traiter la coquette en vainqueur: 

De la beauts modeste on ch^rit l’esclavage.” * 

“I present it to Mademoiselle,” said he, laying the 
motto solemnly in A dele’s plate, upon a little mountain 
of chestnut-husks. 

“ It is very pretty,” said she, looking down. 

“ It is very & propos ,” whispered the epicier,. caressing 
the peruque a little too roughly in his emotion. Mr. 

* The coquette, -who subjugates a heart, yet refuses its tender 
homage, one may treat as a conqueror : of modest beauty we cherish 
the slavery. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Love gave him a kick under the table, and put his finger 
to his own bald head, and then to his nose significantly. 
The intelligent epicier smoothed back the irritated pe- 
ruque. 

“Are you fond of bons-bons, Mademoiselle Adele ? I 
have a very fine stock at home,” said Monsieur Groupille. 

Mademoiselle Adele de Courval sighed — “Helas! they 
remind me of happier days, when I was a petite, and my 
dear grandmamma took me in her lap and told me how 
she escaped the guillotine : she was an emigree, and you 
know her father was a marquis.” 

The epicier bowed and looked puzzled. He did not 
quite see the connexion between the bons-bo?is and the 
guillotine. 

“You are triste, Monsieur,” observed Madame Beavor, 
in rather a piqued tone, to the Pole, who had not said a 
word since the roti. 

“Madame, an exile is always triste: I think of my 
pauvre pays. 

“Bah!” cried Mr. Love, “Think that there is no 
exile by the side of a belle dame” 

The Pole smiled mournfully. 

“ pull it,” said Madame Beavor, holding a cracker to 
#he patriot, and turning away her face. 

“ Yes, madame ; I wish it were a cannon in defence of 
La Pologne .” 

With this magniloquent aspiration, the gallant Sovo- 
4 ofski pulled lustily, and then rubbed his fingers, with a 
little grimace, observing, that crackers were sometimes 

I. — 25 


T 


•290 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


dangerous, and that the present combustible was d'unt 
force immense. 

“ Helas ! J’ai cru jusqu’ a ce jour 
Pouvoir triompher de l’amour,” * 

said Madame Beavor, reading the motto, “ What do you 
say to that ? ” 

“ Madame, there is no triumph for La Pologne / ” 

Madame Beavor uttered a little peevish exclamation, 
and glanced in despair at her red-headed countryman. 
“ Are you, too, a great politician, sir ? ” said she, in 
English. 

“ No, mem ! — I’m all for the ladies.” 

“What does he say ? ” asked Madame Caumartin. 

11 Monsieur Higgins est tout pour les dames.” 

“To be sure he is,” cried Mr. Love ; all the English 
are, especially with that colored hair ; a lady who likes a 
passionate adorer should always marry a man with gold- 
colored hair — always. What do you say, Mademoiselle 
A dele ? ” 

“ Oh, I like fair hair,” said Mademoiselle, looking 
bashfully askew at Monsieur Groupille’sperwgwe. “ Grand- 
mamma said her papa — the marquis — used yellow powder : 
it must have been very pretty.” 

“Rather d la sucre d’orge,” remarked the epicier , 
smiling on the right side of his mouth, where his best 
teeth were. 

Mademoiselle de Courval looked displeased. “ I fear 
you are a republican, Monsieur Goupille ? ” 


* Alas ! I believed until to-day that I could triumph over love 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


291 


“I, mademoiselle? No; I’m for the Restoration;” 
and again the Spicier perplexed himself to discover the 
association of idea between republicanism and sucre 
d’orge. 

“Another glass of wine. Come, another,” said Mr, 
Love, stretching across the Yicomte to help Madame 
Caumartin. „ 

“ Sir,” said the tall Frenchman with the riband, eye- 
ing the epicier with great disdain, “ yon say you are for 
the Restoration — I am for the Empire — Moi /” 

“ No politics ! ” cried Mr. Love. “ Let us adjourn to 
the salon.” 

The Yicomte, who had seemed supremely ennuye 
during this dialogue, plucked Mr. Love by the sleeve as 
he rose, and whispered petulantly, “ I do not see any one 
here to suit me, Monsieur Love — none of my rank.” 

“Mon Dieu!” answered Mr. Love ; “point d’argent 
point de Suisse. I could introduce you to a duchess, 
but then the fee is high. There’s Mademoiselle de 
Courval — she dates from the Carlo vingians.” 

“ She is very like a boiled sole,” answered the Yicomte, 
with a wry face. “Still — what dower has she?” 

“ Forty thousand francs, and sickly,” replied Mr. Love, 
“ but she likes a tall man, and Monsieur Goupille is ” 

“Tall men are never well made,” interrupted the 
Yicomte, angrily ; and he drew himself aside as Mr. Love, 
gallantly advancing, gave his arm to Madame Beavor, 
because the Pole- had, in rising, folded both his own arms 
across nis breast. 


292 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Excnse me, ma’am,’’ said Mr. Love to Madame 
Beavor, as they adjourned to the salon , “I don’t think 
you manage that brave man well.” 

“ Ma foi, comme il est ennuyeux avec sa Pologne 
replied Madame Beavor, shrugging her shoulders. 

“ True ; but he is a very fine-shaped man ; and it is a 
comfort to think that one will^have no rival but his 
country. Trust me, and encourage him a little more ; I 
think he would suit you to a T.” 

Here the attendant engaged for the evening announced 
Monsieur and Madame Giraud ; whereupon there entered 
a little — little couple, very fair, very plump, and very 
like each other. This was Mr. Love’s show couple — 
his decoy ducks — his last best example of match-making ; 
they had been married two months out of the bureau , and 
were the admiration of the neighborhood for their con- 
jugal affection. As they were now united, they had 
ceased to frequent the table d'hote ; but Mr. Love often 
invited them after the dessert, pour encourager les autres. 

“ My dear friends,” cried Mr. Love, shaking each by 
the hand, “ I am ravished to see you. Ladies and gentle- 
men, I present to you Monsieur and Madame Giraud, 
the happiest couple in Christendom; — if I had done 
nothing else in my life but bring them together, I should 
not have lived in vain I ” 

The company eye the objects of this eulogium with 
great attention. 

“ Monsieur, my prayer is to deserve my bonheur said 
Monsieur Giraud. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


293 


Cher ange ! ” murmured Madame : and the happy 
pair seated themselves next to each other. 

Mr. Love, who was all for those innocent pastimes 
which do away with conventional formality and reserve, 
now proposed a game at “ Hunt the Slipper,” which was 
welcomed by the whole party, except the Pole and the 
Yicomte ; though Mademoiselle Adele looked prudish, 
and observed to the Spicier, that Monsieur Lofe was so 
droll, but she should not have liked her pauvre grand - 
maman to see her.” 

The Yicomte had stationed himself opposite to Made- 
moiselle de Courval, and kept his eyes fixed on her very 
tenderly. 

“Mademoiselle, I see, does not approve of such 
bourgeois diversions,” said he. 

“ No, monsieur,” said the gentle Ad&le. “But I think 
we must sacrifice our own tastes to those of the company.” 

“ It is a very amiable sentiment,” said the epicier. 

“It is one attributed to grandmamma’s papa, the 
Marquis de Courval. It has become quite a hackneyed 
remark since,” said Ad&le. 

“ Come, ladies,” said the joyous Rosalie ; “ I volunteer 
my slipper. ” 

“Asseyez-vous done ,” said Madame Beavor to the 
Pole. “ Have you no games of this sort in Poland ? ” 

“Madame, La Pologne is no more,” said the Pole. 
u But with the swords of her brave ” 

“No swords here, if you please,” said Mr. Love, 
25 * 


294 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


putting his vast hands on the Pole’s shoulders, and sink- 
ing him forcibly down into the circle now formed. 

The game proceeded with great vigor and much 
laughter from Rosalie, Mr. Love, and Madame Beavor, 
especially whenever the last thumped the Pole with the 
heel of the slipper. Monsieur Giraud was always sure 
that Madame Giraud had the slipper about her, which 
persuasion on his part gave rise to many little endear- 
ments, which are always so innocent among married 
people. The Yicomte and the epicier were equally 
certain the slipper was with Mademoiselle Adele, who 
defended herself with much more energy than might have 
been supposed in one so gentle. The Spicier, however, 
grew jealous of the attentions of his noble rival, and told 
him that he gene’d mademoiselle ; whereupon the Yicomte 
called him an impertinent ; and the tall Frenchman, with 
the red riband, sprung up and said : — 

“Can I be of any assistance, gentlemen?” 

Therewith Mr. Love, the great peace-maker, interposed, 
and, reconciling the rivals, proposed to change the game 
to Colin Maillard, Anglicl , “Blind Man’s Buff.” Ro- 
salie clapped her hands, and offered herself to be blind- 
folded. The tables and chairs were cleared away ; and 
Madame Beavor pushed the Pole into Rosalie’s arms, 
who, having felt him about the face for some moments, 
guessed him to be the tall Frenchman. During this time 
Monsieur and Madame Giraud hid themselves behind the 
window- curtain. 

“Amuse yourself, mon ami” said Madame Beavor, to 
ihe liberated Pole. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


29c 


“Ah, madame,” sighed Monsieur Sovolofski. “ how can 
I be gay ! All my property confiscated by the Emperor 
of Russia ! Has La Pologne no Brutus ? ” 

“ I think you are in love,” said the host, clapping him 
on the back. 

“Are you quite sure,” whispered the Pole to the match 
maker, “ that Madame Beavor has vingt mille livres de 
rentes ? ” 

“Not a sous less.” 

“ The Pole mused, and, glancing at Madame Beavor, 
said, — “And yet, madame, your charming gaiety con- 
soles me amidst all my sufferings ; ” upon which Madame 
Beavor called him “flatterer,” and rapped his knuckles 
with her fan ; the latter proceeding the brave Pole did 
not seem to like, for he immediately buried his hands in 
his trowsers’ pockets. 

The game was now at its meridian. Rosalie was un- 
commonly active, and flew about here and there, much to 
the harassment of the Pole, who repeatedly wiped his 
forehead, and observed that it was warm work, and put 
him in mind of the last sad battle for La Pologne. 
Monsieur Goupille, who had lately taken lessons in 
dancing, and was vain of his agility — mounted the 
chairs and tables, as Rosalie approached — with great 
grace and gravity. It so happened that in these salta- 
tions, he ascended a stool near the curtain behind which 
Monsieur and Madame Giraud were ensconced. Some- 
what agitated by a slight flutter behind the folds, which 
umie aim fane}, on the sudden panic, that Rosalie was 


\ 


296 


NIGJJT AND MORNING. 


creeping that way, the Spicier made an abrupt pirouette , 
and the hook on which the curtains were suspended, v 
caught his left coat-tail — 

“ The fatal vesture left the unguarded side,” 

just as he turned to extricate the garment from that 
dilemma, Rosalie sprung upon him, and naturally lifting 
her hands to that height where she fancied the human 
face divine, took another extremity of Monsieur Gou- 
pille’s graceful frame thus exposed, by surprise. 

“I don’t know who this is. Quelle drole de visage /” 
muttered Rosalie. 

“ Mais , madame,” faltered Monsieur Goupille, looking 
greatly disconcerted. 

The gentle Adele, who did not seem to relish this ad- 
venture, came to the relief of her wooer, and pinched 
Rosalie very sharply in the arm. 

“ That’s not fair. But I will know who this is,” cried 
Rosalie, angrily ; “ you sha’n’t escape ! ” 

A sudden and universal burst of laughter roused her 
suspicions — she drew back — and exclaiming, — “ Mais , 
quelle mauvaise plaisauterie ; c'est trop fort!” applied 
her fair hand to the place in dispute, with so hearty a 
good-will, that Monsieur Goupille uttered a dolorous cry, 
and sprung from the chair, leaving the coat-tail (the 
cause of all his woe) suspended upon the hook. 

It was just at this moment, and in the midst of th6 
excitement caused by Monsieur Goupille’s misfortune 
that the door opened, and the attendant re-appearedj 
followed by a young man in a large cloak. 


/ 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


297 


The new-comer paused at the threshold, and gazed 
around him in evident surprise. 

“ Diable /” said Mr. Love, approaching, and gazing 
hard at the stranger. “ Is it possible ? — You are come 
at last ? — Welcome I ” 

“But,” said the stranger, apparently still bewildered, 
“there is some mistake; you are not ” 

“ Yes, I am Mr. Love 1 — Love all the world over. How 
is our friend Gregg ? — told you to address yourself to 
Mr. Love, — eh ? — Mum ! — Ladies and gentlemen, an ac- 
quisition to our party. Fine fellow, eh ? — Five feet 
eleven without his shoes, — and young enough to hope to 
be thrice married before he dies. When did you arrive ?” 

“ To-day.” 

And thus, Philip Morton and Mr. William Gawtrey 
met once more. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Happy the man who, void of care and strife, 

In silken or in leathern purse retains 
A splendid shilling!” — The Splendid Shilling. 

“And wherefore should they take or care for thought, 

The unreasoning vulgar willingly obey, 

And leaving toil and poverty behind, 

Run forth by different ways, the blissful boon to find.” 

West’s Education. 

“ Poor boy ! your story interests me. The events are 
romantic, but the moral is practical, old, everlasting — • 
life, boy, life. Poverty by itself is no such great curse ; 
25 * 


298 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


that is, if it stops short of starving. And passion b} 
itself is a noble thing, sir ; but poverty and passion 
together — poverty and feeling — poverty and pride — the 
poverty one is not born to, but falls into ; — and the man 
who ousts you out of your easy chair, kicking you with 
every turn he takes, as he settles himself more comfort- 
ably — why, there’s no romance in that — hard every-day 
life, sir ! Well, well : — so after your brother’s letter you 
resigned yourself to that fellow Smith.” 

“ No ; I gave him my money, not my soul. I turned 
frofla his door, with a few shillings that he himself thrust 
into my hand, and walked on — I cared not whither — out 
of the town, into the fields — till night came ; and then, 
just as I suddenly entered on the high-road, many miles 
away, the moon rose ; and I saw, by the hedge-side, 
something that seemed like a corpse : it was an old beg- 
gar, in the last state of raggedness, disease, and famine. 
He had laid himself down to die. I shared with him 
what I had, and helped him to a little inn. As he crossed 
the threshold, he turned round and blessed me. Do you 
know, the moment I heard that blessing, a stone seemed 
rolled away from my heart. I said to myself, — ‘ What 
then ! even I can be of use to some one ; and I am better 
off than that old man, for I have youth and health.’ As 
these thoughts stirred in me, my limbs, before heavy with 
fatigue, grew light ; a strange kind of excitement seized 
me. I ran on gaily, beneath the moonlight, that smiled 
over the crisp, broad road. I felt as if no house, not 
even a palace, were large enough for me that night. And 


night and morning. 


299 


when, at last, wearied out, I crept into a wood, and laid 
myself down to sleep, I still murmured to myself, — ‘ 1 
have youth and health.’ But, in the morning, when 1 
rose, I stretched out my arms, and missed my brother 1 
.... In two or three days I found employment with a 
farmer ; but we quarrelled after a few weeks j for once 
he wished to strike me : and somehow or other, I could 
work, but not serve. Winter had begun when we parted. 
—Oh, such a winter !— Then — then I knew what it was 
to be houseless. How I lived for some months — if to 
live it can be called — it would pain you to hear, and 
'humble me to tell. At last, I found myself again in 
London; and one evening, not many days since, I re- 
solved at last — for nothing else seemed left, and I had 
not touched food for two days — to come to you.” 

“And why did that never occur to you before ? ” 

“Because,” said Philip, with a deep blush,— “ because 
I trembled at the power over my actions and my future 
life that I was to give to one, whom I was to bless as a 
benefactor, yet distrust as a guide.” 

“ Well,” said Love, or Gawtrey, with a singular mix- 
ture of irony and compassion in his voice ; “ and it was 
hunger, then, that terrified you at last ever more than 1 1 ” 

“ Perhaps hunger, — or perhaps rather the reasoning 
that comes from hunger. I bad not, I say, touched food 
for two days ; and I was standing on that bridge, from 
which on one side you see the palace of a head of the 
Chunh, on the other the towers of the Abbey, within 
which the men I have read of in history lie buried. It 


,{00 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

was a cold, frosty evening, and the river below looked 
bright with the lamps and stars. I leaned, weak and 
sickening, against the wall of the bridge ; and in one of 
the arched recesses beside me a cripple held out his hat 
for pence. I envied him ! — he had a livelihood ; he was 
inured to it, perhaps bred to it he had no shame. By 
a sudden impule, I, too, turned abruptly round — held out 
my hand to the first passenger, and started at the shrill- 
ness of ny own voice, as it cried ‘Charity.’” 

Gawtrey threw another log on the fire, looked compla- 
cently round the comfortable room, and rubbed his hands. 
The young man continued, — 

“‘You should be ashamed of yourself. — I’ve a great 
mind to give you to the police,’ was the answer, in a pert 
and sharp tone. I looked up, and saw the livery my 
father’s menials had worn. I had been begging my bread 
from Robert Beaufort’s lackey ! I said nothing ; the 
man went on his business on tiptoe, that the mud might 
not splash above the soles of his shoes. Then, thoughts 
so black that they seemed to blot out every star from the 
sky — thoughts, I had often wrestled against, but to which 
I now gave myself up with a sort of mad joy — seized 
me : and I remembered you. I had still preserved the 
address you gave me ; I went straight to the house. Your 
friend, on naming you, received me kindly, and without 
question, placed food before me — pressed on me clothing 
and money — procured me a passport — gave me your 
address — and now I am beneath your roof. Gawtrey, I 
know nothing yet of the world, but the dark side of it 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


30 


I know not what to deem yon — but as you alone have 
been kind to me, so it is to your kindness rather than 
your aid, that I now cling — your kind words and kind 
looks — yet : ” he stopped short, and breathed hard. 

“Yet you would know more of me. Faith, my boy, I 
cannot tell you more at this moment. I believe, to speak 
(airly, I don’t live exactly within the pale of the law. But 
fhn not a villain ! — I never plundered my friend and called 
it play ! — I never murdered my friend and called it honor ! 

— I never seduced my friend’s wife and called it gallantry ! ” 
As Gawtrey said this, he drew the words out, one by one, 
through his grinded teeth, paused, and resumed more 
gaily, — “I struggle with Fortune; viold tout! I am 
not what you seem to suppose — not exactly a swindler, 
certainly not a robber ! But, as I before told you, I am 
a charlatan, so is every man who strives to be richer or x 
greater than he is. I, too, want kindness as much as you 
do. My bread and my cup are at your service. I will 
try and keep you unsullied, even by the clean dirt that 
now and then sticks to me. On the other hand, youth, 
my young friend, has no right to play the censor ; and 
you must take me as you take the world, without being 
over-scrupulous and dainty. My present vocation pays 
well ; in fact, I am beginning to lay by My real name 
and past life are thoroughly unknown, and as yet unsus- 
pected in this quartier ; for though I have seen much of 
Paris, my career hitherto has passed in other parts of the 
city ; — and for the rest, own that I am well disguised ! 
What a benevolent air this bald forehead gives me — eh ? 

1 . — 26 


302 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


True/’ added Gawtrey, somewhat more seriously, “if 1 
saw how you could support yourself in a broader path 
of life than that in which I pick out my own way, I might 
say to you, as a gay man of fashion might say to some 
sober stripling — nay, as many a dissolute father says (or 
ought to say) to his son, — ‘ It is no reason you should be 
a sinner, because I am not a saint.’ In a word, if you 
were well off in a respectable profession, you might have 
safer acquaintances than myself. But, as it is, upon my 
word as a plain man, I don’t see what you can do better.” 
Gawtrey made this speech with so much frankness and 
ease, that it seemed greatly to relieve the listener, and 
when he wound up with, “ What say you ? In fine, my 
life is that of a great school-boy, getting into scrapes for 
the fun of it, and fighting his way out as he best can ! — 
Will you see how you like it ? ” Philip, with a confiding 
and grateful impulse, put his hand into Gawtrey’s. The 
host shook it cordially, and, without saying another word, 
showed his guest into a little cabinet where there was a 
sofa-bed, and they parted for the night. 

The new life upon which Philip Morton entered was so 
odd, so grotesque, and so amusing, that at his age it was, 
perpaps, natural that he should not be clear-sighted as to 
its danger. 

William Gawtrey was one of those men who are born 
to exert a certain inflnence and ascendency wherever they 
may be thrown ; his vast strength, his redundant health, 
had a power of themselves — a moral as \*ell as physical 
power. He naturally possessed high animal spirits, be- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


303 


neath the surface of which, however, at times, there was 
visible a certain under-current of malignity and scorn. 
He had evidently received a superior education, and could 
command at will the manners of a man not unfamiliar 
with a politer class of society. From the first hour that 

Philip had seen him on the top of the coach on the R 

road, this man had attracted his curiosity and interest ; 
the conversation he had heard in the church-yard, the 
obligations he owed to Gawtrey in his escape from the 
officers of justice, the time afterwards passed in his so- 
ciety till they separated at the little inn, the rough and 
hearty kindliness Gawtrey had shown him at that period, 
and the hospitality extended to him now, — all contributed 
to excite his fancy, and in much, — indeed very much, en- 
titled this singular person to his gratitude. Morton, in a 
word, was fascinated ; this man was the only friend he 
had made. I have not thought it necessary to detail to 
the reader the conversations that had taken place between 
them, during that passage of Morton’s life when he was 
before for some days Gawtrey’s companion ; yet those 
conversations had sunk deep in his mind. He was struck, 
and almost awed, by the profound gloom which lurked 
under Gawtrey’s broad humor — a gloom, not of tempera- 
ment, but of knowledge. His views of life, of human 
justice and human virtue, were (as, to be sure, is com- 
monly the case with men who have had reason to quarrel 
with the world) dreary and despairing ; and Morton’s own 
experience had been so sad, that these opinions were more 
influential than they could ever have been with the happy. 


304 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


However in this, their second re-union, there was a greater 
gaiety than in their first : and under his host’s roof Mor- 
ton insensibly, but rapidly, recovered something of the 
early and natural tone of his impetuous and ardent spirits. 
Gawtrey himself was generally a boon companion ; their 
society, if not select, was merry. When their evenings 
were disengaged, Gawtrey was fond of haunting cafes 
and theatres, and Morton was his companion ; Birnie 
(Mr. Gawtrey ’s partner) never accompanied them. Re- 
freshed by this change of life, the very person of this 
young man regained its bloom and vigor, as a plant, re- 
moved from some choked atmosphere and unwholesome 
soil, where it had struggled for light and air, expands on 
transplanting ; the graceful leaves burst from the long- 
drooping boughs, and the elastic crest springs upward to 
the sun in the glory of its young prime. If there was 
still a certain fiery sternness in his aspect, it had ceased, 
at least, to be haggard and savage ; it even suited the 
character of his dark and expressive features. He might 
not have lost the something of the tiger in his fierce tem- 
per, but in the sleek hues and the sinewy symmetry of the 
frame, he began to put forth also something of the tiger’s 
beauty. 

Mr. Birnie did not sleep in the house, he went home 
nightly to a lodging at some little distance. We have 
said but little about this man, for, to all appearance, there 
was little enough to say ; he rarely opened his own mouth 
except to Gawtrey, with whom Philip often observed him 
engaged in whispered conferences, to which he was not 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


305 


admitted. His eye, however, was less idle than his lips f 
it was not a bright eye, on the contrary, it was dull, and, 
to the unobservant, lifeless, of a pale blue, with a dim film 
over it — the eye of a vulture ; but it had in it a calm 
heavy, stealthy, watchfulness, which inspired Morton with 
great distrust and aversion. Mr. Birnie hot only spoke 
French like a native, but all his habits, his gestures, his 
tricks of manner, were French ; not the French of good 
society, but more idiomatic, as it were, and popular. He 
was not exactly a vulgar person, he was too silent for 
that, but he was evidently of low extraction and coarse 
breeding ; his accomplishments were of a mechanical 
nature ; he was an extraordinary arithmetician, he was a 
very skilful chemist, and kept a laboratory at his lodgings ; 
he mended his own clothes and linen with incomparable 
neatness. Philip suspected him of blacking his own 
shoes, but that was prejudice. Once he found Morton 
sketching horses’ heads — pour se desennuyer ; and he 
made some short criticisms on the drawings, which showed 
him well acquainted with the art. Philip, surprised, 
sought to draw him into conversation ; but Birnie eluded 
the attempt, and observed that he had once been an en- 
graver. 

Gawtrey himself did not seem to know much of the 
early life of this person, or at least he did not seem to 
like much to talk of him. The footstep of Mr. Birnie 
was gliding, noiseless, and cat-like ; he had no sociality in 
him — enjoyed nothing — drank hard — but was nevei 
drunk. Somehow or other, he had evidently over Gaw 

26 * u 


B06 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


trey an influence little less than that which Gawtrey had 
over Morton, but it was of a different nature : Morton 
had conceived an extraordinary affection for his friend, 
while Gawtrey seemed secretly to dislike Birnie, and to 
be glad whenever he quitted his presence. It was, in 
truth, Gawtrey’s custom when Birnie retired for the night, 
to rub his hands, bring out the punch-bowl, squeeze the 
lemons, and while Philip, stretched on the sofa, listened 
to him, between sleep and waking, to talk on for the hour 
together, often till day-break, with that bizarre mixture 
of knavery and feeling, drollery and sentiment which 
made the dangerous charm of his society. 

One evening as they thus sat together, Morton, after 
listening for some time to his companion’s comments on 
men and things, said abruptly, — 

“ Gawtrey ! there is so much in you that puzzles me, so 
much which I find it difficult to reconcile with your 
present pursuits, that, if I ask no indiscreet confidence, I 
should like greatly to hear some account of your early 
life. It would please me to compare it with my own ; 
when I am your age, I will then look back and see what 
I owed to your example.” 

“ My early life ! well — you shall hear it. It will put 
you on your guard, I hope, betimes against the two rocks 

of youth love and friendship.” Then, while squeezing 

the lemon into his favorite beverage, which Morton ob- 
served he made stronger than usual, Gawtrey thw com- 
menced 

THE HISTORY OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


SOT 


CHAPTER III. 

“ All his saccess must on himself depend, 

He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend ; 

With spirit high, John learn’d the world to brave, 

And in both senses was a ready knave.” — Crabbe. 

‘'My grandfather sold walking-sticks and umbrellas 
in the little passage by Exeter ’Change ; he was a man 
of genius and speculation. As soon as he had scraped 
together a little money, he lent it to some poor devil with 
a hard landlord, at twenty per cent., and made him take 
half the loan in umbrellas or bamboos. By these means 
he got his foot into the ladder, and climbed upward and 
upward, till, at the age of forty, he had amassed 5000Z. 
He then looked about for a wife. An honest trader in 
the Strand, who dealt largely in cotton prints, possessed 
an only daughter ; this young lady had a legacy, from a 
great aunt, of 3220/., with a small street in St. Giles’s, 
where the tenants paid weekly (all thieves or rogues — 
all, so their rents were sure). Now my grandfather con- 
ceived a great friendship for the father of this young lady ; 
gave him a hint as to a new pattern in spotted cottons ; 
enticed him to take out a patent, and lent him TOO/, for 
the speculation, applied for the money at the very moment 
cottons were at their worst, and got the daughter instead 
of the money, — by which exchange, you see, he won 


308 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

2520 L, to say nothing of the young lady. My grand- 
father then entered into partnership with the woithy 
trader, carried on the patent with spirit, and begat two 
sons. As he grew older, ambition seized him ; his sons 
should be gentlemen — one was sent to College, the other 
put into a marching regiment* My grandfather meant to 
die worth a plum ; but a fever he caught in visiting his 
tenants in St. Giles’s, prevented him, and he only left 
20,000Z. equally divided between the sons. My father, 
the College man” (here Gawtrey paused a moment, took 
a large draught of the punch, and resumed with a visible 
effort) — “my father, the College man, was a person of 
rigid principles — bore an excellent character — had a 
great regard for the world. He married early and re- 
spectably. I am the sole fruit of that union ; he lived 
soberly, his temper was harsh and morose, his home 
gloomy ; he was a very severe father, and my mother died 
before I was ten years old. When I was fourteen, a little 
old Frenchman came to lodge with us ; he had been 
persecuted under the old regime for being a philosopher ; 
he filled my head with odd crotchets which, more or less, 
have stuck there ever since. At eighteen I was sent to 
St. John’s College, Cambridge. My father was rich enough 
to have let me go up in the higher rank of a pensioner, 
but he had lately grown avaricious ; he thought that I 
was extravagant ; he made me a sizar, perhaps to spite 
me. Then, for the first time, those inequalities in life 
which the Frenchman had dinned into my ears met me 
practically. A sizar ! another name for a dog ! I had 


NIGHT AND HORNING. 


309 


Buch strength, health, and spirits, that I had more Jfe in 
my little finger than half the fellow-commoners — genteel, 
spindle-shanked striplings, who might have passed for a 
collection of my grandfather’s walking-canes — had in 
their whole bodies. And I often think,” continued Gawtrey, 

“ that health and spirits have a great deal to answer for 1 
When we are young we so far resemble savages — who 
are. Nature’s young people — that we attach prodigious 
value to physical advantages. My feats of strength and 
activity — the clods I thrashed— and the railings I leaped 
— and the boat-races I won — are they not written in 
the chronicle of St. John’s ? These achievements inspired 
me with an extravagant sense of my own superiority, • 
I could not but despise the rich fellows whom I could 
have blown down with a sneeze. Nevertheless, there was 
an impassable barrier between tne and them a sizar was 
not a proper associate for the favorites of fortune ! But 
there was one young man, a year younger than myself, 
of high birth, and the heir to considerable wealth, who 
did not regard me with the same supercilious insolence as 
the rest ; his very rank, perhaps, made him indifferent to 
the little conventionel formalities which influence persons 
who cannot play at football with this round world ; he was 
the wildest youngster in the university — lamp-breaker — 
tandem-driver — mob-fighter — a very devil in short — 
clever, but not in the reading line — small and slight, 
but brave as a lion. Congenial habits made us intimate, 
and I loved him like a brother — better than a brother — 
tts a dog loves his master. In all our rows 1 covered 


810 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


him with my body. He had but to say to me, ‘Leap 
into the water,’ and I would not have stopped to pull off 
my coat. In short, I loved him as a proud man loves one 
who stands betwixt him and contempt, — as an affection- 
ate man loves one who stands between him and solitude. 
To cut short a long story : my friend, one dark night, 
committed an outrage against discipline, of the most un- 
pardonable character. There was a sanctimonious, grave, 
old fellow of the College crawling home from a tea-party ; 
my friend and another of his set seized, blindfolded, and 
hand-cuffed this poor wretch, carried him, vi et armis, 
back to the house of an old maid whom he had been court- 
ing for the last ten years, fastened his pigtail (he wore a 
long one) to the knocker, and so left him. You may 
imagine the infernal hubbub which his attemps to extricate 
himself caused in the whole street; the old maid’s old 
maid-servant, after emptying on his head all the vessels 
of wrath she could lay her hand to, screamed ‘ Rape and 
murder ! ’ The proctor and his bull-dogs came up, re- 
leased the prisoner, and gave chase to the delinquents, 
who had incautiously remained near to enjoy the sport. 
The night was dark, and they reached the College in safety, 
but they had been tracked to the gates. For this of 
fence I was expelled.” 

“Why, you were not concerned in it ?” said Philip. 

“ No ; but I was suspected and accused. I could have 
got off by betraying the true culprits, but my friend’s 
father was in public life — a stern, haughty, old states- 
man ; my friend was mortally afraid of him — the only 


NIGHT^AND MORNING. 


person he was afraid of. If I had too much insisted c j 
my innocence, I might have set inquiry on the right track 
In fine, I was happy to prove my friendship for him. 

He shook me most tenderly by the hand on parting, and 
promised never to forget my generous devotion. I went 
home in disgrace : I need not tell you what my father 
said to me ; I do not think he ever loved me from that # 
hour. Shortly after this, my uncle, George Gawtrey, the 
captain, returned from abroad ; he took a great fancy to 
me, and I left my father’s house (which had grown insuffer- 
able) to live with him. He had been a very handsome man 
— a gay spendthrift ; he had got through his fortune, and 
now lived on his wits — he was a professed gambler. 
His easy temper, his lively humors, fascinated me ; he 
knew the world well ; and, like all gamblers, was generous 
when the dice were lucky, — which, to tell you the truth, 
they generally were, with a man who had no scruples. 
Though his practices were a little suspected, they had 
never been discovered. We lived in an elegant apart- 
ment, mixed familiarly with men of various ranks, and en- 
joyed life extremely. I brushed off my college rust, and 
conceived a taste for expense : I know not why it was, 
but in my new existence every one was kind to me ; and 
I had spirits that made me welcome everywhere. I was 
a scamp — but a frolicsome scamp — and that is always a 
popular character. As yet I was not dishonest, but saw 
dishonesty round me, and it seemed a very pleasant, jolly 
inode of making money ; and now I again fell into contact 
with the young heir. My college friend was as wild in 


312 


MGHT AND MOANING. 


London as he had been at Cambridge : but the boy-ruffian, 
though not then twenty years of age, had grown into the 
man-villain.” 

Here Gawtrey paused, and frowned darkly. 

“ He had great natural parts, this young man — much 
wit, readiness, and cunning, and he became very intimate 
with my uncle. He learned of him how to play the dice, 
and to pack the cards — he paid him 1000Z. for the know- 
ledge ! ” 

“ How ! a cheat ? You said he was rich.” 

“ His father was very rich, and he had a liberal allow- 
ance, but he was very extravagant ; and rich men love 
gain as well as poor men do 1 He had no excuse but 
the grand excuse of all vice — Selfish ;ess. Young as 
he was he became the fashion, and he fattened upon the 
Dlunder of his equals, who desired the honor of his ac- 
quaintance. Now, I had seen my uncle cheat, but I had 
never imitated his example ; when the man of fashion 
cneated, and made a jest of his earnings and my scruples 
— when I saw him courted, flattered, honored, and his 
acts unsuspected, because his connexions embraced half 
the peerage, the temptation grew strong, but I still re- 
sisted it. However, my father always said I was born to 
be a good-for-nothing, and I could not escape my destiny. 
And now I suddenly fell in love — you don’t know what 
that is yet — so much the better for you. The girl was 
beautiful, and I thought she loved me — perhaps she did 
— but I was too poor, so her friends said, for marriage. We 
courted, as the saying is, in the meanwhile. Jt was my 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


313 


love for her, my wish to deserve her, that made me iron 
against my friend’s example. I was fool enough to speak 
to him of Mary — to present him to her : this ended in her 
seduction.” (Again Gawtrey paused, and breathed hard.) 
“ I discovered the treachery — I called out the seducer — 
he sneered and refused to fight the low-born adventurer. 
I struck him to the earth — and then we fought : I was 
satisfied by a ball through my side ! but he” added Gaw- 
trey, rubbing his hands, and with a vindictive chuckle, — 
“ he was a cripple for life ! When I recovered, I found 
that my foe, whose sick chamber was crowded with friends 
and comforters, had taken advantage of my illness to 
ruin my reputation. He, the swindler, accused me of his 
own crime : the equivocal character of my uncle confirmed 
the charge. Him, his own high-born pupil was enabled 
to unmask, and his disgrace was visited on me. I left 
m . 1 ed, to find my uncle (all disguise over) an avowed 
partner in a hell ; and myself, blasted alike in name, love, 
past and future. And then, Philip, — then I commenced 
that career which I have trodden since, the prince of 
good-fellows and good-for-nothings ; with ten thousand 
aliases, and as many strings to my bow. Society cast me 
off when I was innocent. Egad, I have had my revenge 
on society since ! — Ho ! ho ! ho ! ” 

The laugh of this man had in it a moral infection. 
There was a sort of glorying in its deep tone ; it was not 
the hollow hysteric of shame and despair — it spoke a 
sanguine joyousness 1 William Gawtrey was a man 
whose animal constitution had led him to take animal 
I. — 2T 


/ 


14 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


pleasure In all things : he had enjoyed the poisons he had 
lived on. 

“ But your father, — surely your father ” 

“My father,” interrupted Gawtrey, “refused me the 
money — (but a small sum) — that, once struck with the 
strong impulse of a sincere penitence, I begged of him, to 
enable me to get an honest living in an humble trade : 
his refusal soured the penitence — it gave me an excuse 
for my career — and conscience grapples to an excuse as 
a drowning wretch to a straw. And yet .this hard father 
— this cautious, moral, money-loving man, three months 
afterwards, suffered a rogue — almost a stranger — to decoy 
him into a speculation that promised to bring him fifty 
per cent. : he invested in the traffic of usury what had 
sufficed to save a hundred such as I am from perdition, 
and he lost it all; it was Nearly his whole fortune ; but 
he lives and has his luxuries still : he cannot speculate, 
but he can save : he cared not if I starved, for he finds an 
hourly happiness in starving himself.” 

“And your friend,” said Philip, after a pause in which 
his young sympathies went dangerously with the excuses 
for his benefactor; “what has become of him, and the 
poor girl ? ” 

“ My friend became a great man ; he succeeded to his 
father’s peerage — a very ancient one — and to a splendid 
income. He is living still. Well, you shall hear about 
the poor girl! We are told of victims of seduction 
dying in a workhouse, or on a dunghill, penitent, broken- 
hearted, and uncommonly ragged and sentimental ; — it 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


815 


may be a frequent case, but it is not the worst. It is 
worse, I think, when the fair, penitent, innocent, credulous 
dupe becomes in her turn the deceiver — when she 
catches vice from the breath upon which she has hung — 
when she ripens, and mellows, and rots away into painted, 
blazing, staring, wholesale harlotry — when, in her turn, 
she ruins warm youth with false smiles and long bills — 
and when worse — worse than all, when she has children, 
daughters perhaps, brought up to the same trade, 
cooped, plumped, for some hoary lecher, without a heart 
in their bosoms, unless a balance for weighing money may 
be called a heart : Mary became this ; and I wish to 
Heaven she had rather died in an hospital 1 Her lover 
polluted her soul as well as her beauty : he found her 
another lover when he was tired of her. When she was 
at the age of thirty-six, I* fnet her in Paris, with a 
daughter of sixteen. I was then flush with money, fre- 
quenting salons , and playing the part of a fine gentle- 
man ; she did not know me at first ; and she sought my 
acquaintance. For you must know, my young friend,” 
said Gawtry, abruptly breaking off the thread of his 
narrative, 11 that I am not altogether the low dog you 
might suppose in seeing me here. At Paris — ah ! you 
lon’t know Paris — there is a glorious ferment in society 
in which the dregs are often uppermost ! I came here at 
the Peace ; and here have I resided the greater part of 
each year ever since. The vast masses of energy and 
life, broken up by the great thaw of the Imperial system, 
floating along the tide, are terrible icebergs for the vessel 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


,11 fi 

of the state. Some think Napoleonism over — its effects 
are only begun. Society is shattered from one end to 
the other, and I laugh at the little rivets by which they 
think to keep it together.* But to return : Paris, I say, 
is the atmosphere for adventurers — new faces and new 
men are so common here that they excite no impertinent 
inquiry, it is so usual to see fortunes made in a day and 
spent in a month ; except in certain circles, there is no 
walking round a man’s character to spy out where it 
wants piecing ! Some lean Greek poet put lead in his 
pockets to prevent being blown away;— put gold in your 
pockets, and at Paris you may defy the sharpest wind in 
the world, — yea, even the breath of that old JEolus — 
Scandal ! Well, then, I had money — no matter how I 
came by it — and health, and gaiety ; and I was well re- 
ceived in the coteries that exist in all capitals, but mostly 
in France, where pleasure is the cement that joins many 
discordant atoms : here, I say, I met Mary and her 
daughter, by my old friend, — the daughter, still innocent, 
but, sacrc ! in what an element of vice ! We knew each 
other’s secrets, Mary and I, and kept them : she thought 
me a greater knave than I was, anckshe intrusted to me 
her intention of selling her child to a rich English mar- 
quis. On the other hand, the poor girl confided to me 
her horror of the scenes she witnessed and the snares that 
surrounded her. What do you think preserved her pure 

* This passage was written at a period when the dynasty of 
Louis Phillippe seemed the most assured, and Napoleonism was 
indeed considered extinct. 


night and morning. 


317 


fronTall danger ? Bah ! you will never guess l — It was 
partly because, if example corrupts, it as often deters, but 
principally because she loved. A girl who loves one man 
purely has about her an amulet which defies the advances 
of the profligate. There was a handsome young Italian, 
an artist, who frequented the house — he was the man. I 
had to choose, then, between mother and daughter : I 
chose the last.” 

Philip seized hold of Gawtrey’s hand, grasped it 
warmly, and the good-for-nothing continued,— 

“ Do you know, that I loved that girl as well as I had 
ever loved the mother, though in another way ; she was 
what I had fancied the mother to be ; still more fair, more 
graceful, more winning, with a heart as full of love as her 
mother’s had been of vanity. I loved that child as if she 
had been my own daughter — I induced her to leave her 
mother’s house — I secreted her — I saw her married to 
the man she loved — I gave her away, and saw no more 
of her for several months.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Because I spent them in prison ! The young people 
could not live upon air ; I gave them what I had, and, 
it order to do more, I did something which displeased 
the police ; I narrowly escaped that time ; but I am 
popular— very popular, and with plenty of witnesses, not 
over-scrupulous, I got off ! When I was released, I would 
not go to see them, for my clothes were ragged : the 
police still watched me, and I would not do them harm 
tn the world ! Ay, poor wretches ! they struggled so 
27 * 


318 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


hard : he could get very little by his art, though, I be* 
lieve, he was a cleverish fellow at it, and the money I had 
given them could not last for ever. They lived near the 
Champs Elysees, and at night I used to steal out and 
look at them through the window. They seemed so 
happy, and so handsome, and so good ; but he looked 
sickly, and I saw that, like all Italians, he languished for 
his own warm climate. But man is born to act as well 
as to contemplate, ” pursued Gawtrey, changing his tone 
into the allegro ; “ and I was soon driven into my old 
ways, though in a lower line. I went to London, just to 
give my reputation an airing, and when I returned, pretty 
flush again, the poor Italian was dead, and Fanny was a 
widow, with one boy, and enciente with a second child. 
So then I sought her again, for her mother had foand 
her out, and was at her with her devilish kindness ; but 
Heaven was merciful, and took her away from both of us : 
she died in giving birth to a girl, and her last words were 
uttered to me, imploring me — the adventurer — the char- 
latan — the good-for-nothing — to keep her child from the 
clutches of her own mother. Well, sir, I did what I 
could for both the children ; but the boy was consump- 
tive, like his father, and sleeps at Pere-la- Chaise. The 
girl is here — you shall see her some day. Poor Fanny ! 
if ever the devil will let me, I shall reform for her sake ; 
meanwhile, for her sake I must get grist for the mill. 
My story is concluded, for I need not tell you all of my 
pranks — of all the parts I have played in life. I have 
never been a murderer, or a burglar, or a highway robber, 


NIGHT AND MORNING 31^ 

or what the law calls a thief. I can only say, as I said 
before, I have lived upon my wits, and they have been a 
tolerable capital on the whole. I have been an actor, a 
money-lender, a physician, a professor of animal magnet- 
ism, (that was lucrative till it went out of fashion, per- 
haps it will come in again ;) I have been a lawyer, a . 
house-agent, a dealer in curiosities and china; I have 
kept a hotel ; I have set up a weekly newspaper ; I have 
seen almost every city in Europe, and made acquaintance 
with some of its gaols ; but a man who has plenty of 
brains generally falls on his legs.” 

“And your father ? ” said Philip ; and here he spoke 
to Gawtrey of the conversation he had overheard in the 
church-yard, but on which a scruple of natural delicacy 
had hitherto kept him silent. 

“Well, now,” said his host, while a slight blush rose 
to his cheeks, “ I will tell you, that though to my father’s 
sternness and avarice I attribute many of my faults, I 
yet always had a sort of love for him ; and when in 
London, I accidentally heard that he was growing blind, 
and living with an artful old jade of a house-keeper, who 
might send him to rest with a dose of magnesia the night 
after she had coaxed him to make a will in her favor. I 

sought him out — and But you say you heard what 

passed.” 

“ Yes ; and I heard him also call you by name, when 
it was too late, and I saw the tears on his cheeks.” 

“ Did you ? — will you swear to that ? ” exclaimed 


320 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Gawtrey, with vehemence : then shading his brow with 
his hand, he fell into a reverie that lasted some moments. 

“If anything happen to me, Philip,” he said, abruptly, 
“ perhaps he may yet be a father to poor Fanny ; and if 
he takes to her, she will repay him for whatever pain I 
may, perhaps, have cost him. Stop ! now I think of it, 
I will write down his address for you — never forget it — 
there! It is time to go to bed.” 

Gawtrey’s tale made a deep impression on Philip. He 
was too young, too inexperienced, too much borne away 
by the passion of the narrator, to see that Gawtrey had 
less cause to blame Fate than himself. True, he had 
been unjustly implicated in the disgrace of an unworthy 
uncle, but he had lived with that uncle, though he knew 
him to be a common cheat ; true, he had been betrayed 
by a friend, but he had before known that friend to be a 
man without principle or honor. But what wonder that 
an ardent boy saw nothing of this — saw only the good 
I heart that had saved a poor girl from vice, and sighed to 

relieve a harsh and avaricious parent. Even the hints 
that Gawtrey unawares let fall of practices scarcely 
covered by the jovial phrase of “a great school-boy’s 
scrapes,” either escaped the notice of Philip, or were 
charitably construed by him, in the compassion and the 
ignorance of a young, hasty, and grateful heart. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


32) 


( 


CHAPTER IY. 

“ And she ’s a stranger ! 

Women — beware women.” — Middleton. 

“As we love our youngest children best, 

So the last fruit of our affection, 

Wherever we bestow it, is most strong; 

Since ‘tis indeed our latest harvest-home, 

Last merriment ’fore winter!” — Webster: Devil's Law Cate, 

“I would fain know what kind of thing a man’s heart is? 

I will report it to you: ’tis a thing framed 
With divers corners!” — Rowley. 

I have said that Gawtrey’s tale made a deep impres- 
sion on Philip ; — that impression was increased by 
subsequent conversations, more frank even than their talk 
had hitherto been. There was certainly about this man 
a fatal charm which concealed his vices. It arose, per- 
haps, from the perfect combinations of his physical frame 
— from a health which made his spirits buoyant and 
hearty under all circumstances — and a blood so fresh, so 
sanguine, that it could not fail to keep the pores of the 
heart open. But he was not the less — for all his kindly 
impulses and generous feeling, and despite the manner in 
which, naturally anxious to make the least unfavorable 
portrait of himself to Philip, he softened and glossed 
over the practices of his life — a thorough and complete 
logue, a dangerous, desperate, reckless dare-devil ; it was 
27 * 


V 


322 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


easy to see when anything crossed him, by the cloud on 
his shaggy brow, by the swelling of the veins on the fore- 
head, by the dilation of the broad nostril, that he was one 
to cut his way through every obstacle to an end, — cho- 
leric, impetuous, fierce, determined ; . such, indeed, were 
the qualities that made him respected among his associ- 
ates, as his more bland and humorous ones made him be- 
loved : he was, in fact, the incarnation of that great spirii 
which the laws of the world raise up against the world, 
and by which the world’s injustice, on a large scale, is 
awfully chastised ; on a small scale, merely nibbled at 
and harassed, as the rat that gnaws the hoof of the ele- 
phant : — The spirit which, on a vast theatre, rises up, 
gigantic and sublime, in the heroes of war and revolution 
— in Mirabeaus, Marats, Napoleons; on a minor stage, 
it shows itself in demagogues, fanatical philosophers, and 
mob-writers ; and on the forbidden boards, before whose 
reeking lamps outcasts sit, at once audience and actors, 
it never produced a knave more consummate in his part, 
or carrying it off with more buskined dignity, than Wil- 
liam Gawtrey. I call him by his aboriginal name ; as for 
his other appellations, Bacchus himself had not so many ! 

One day, a lady, richly dressed, was ushered by Mr. 
Birnie into the bureau of Mr. Love, alias Gawtrey. 
Philip was seated by the window, reading, for the first 
time, the “ Candide,” — that work, next to “ Rasselas,” 
the most hopeless and gloomy of the sports of genius with 
mankind. The lady seemed rather embarrassed when she 
perceived Mr. Love was not alone. She drew back, and 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


323 


drawing her veil still more closely round her, said, in 
French, — 

“Pardon me, I would wish a private conversation.” 

Philip rose to withdraw, when the lady, observing him 
with eyes whose lustre shone through the veil, said 
gently — 

“But, perhaps, the young gentleman is discreet.” 

“ lie is not discreet, he is discretion ! — my adopted 
son You may confide in him — upon my honor you may, 
madam ! ” and Mr. Love placed his hand on his heart. 

“ He is very young,” said the lady, in a tone of involun- 
tary compassion, as, with a very white hand, she unclasped 
the buckle of her cloak. 

“ He can the better understand the curse of celibacy,” 
returned Mr. Love, smiling. 

The lady lifted part of her veil, and discovered a hand- 
some mouth, and a set of small, white teeth; for she, 
too, smiled, though gravely, as she turned to Morton, 
and said — 

“You seem, sir, more fitted to be a votary of the 
temple than one of its officers. However, Monsieur Love, 
let there be no mistake between us ; I do not come here 
to form a marriage, but to prevent one. I understand 
that Monsieur the Yicomte de Yaudemont has called 
into request your services. I am one of the Yicomte’s 
family ; we are all anxious that he should not contract 
an engagement of the strange, and, pardon me, unbe- 
coming character, which must stamp an union formed at 
a public office.” 


324 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ I assure you, madam,” said Mr. Love, with dignity 

“ that we have contributed to the very first ” 

“Mon Dieu!” interrupted the lady, with much impa- 
tience, “ spare me an eulogy on your establishment : I 
have no doubt it is very respectable ; and for grisettes 
and epiciers may do extremely well. But the Yicomte 
is a man of birth and connexions. In a word, what he 
contemplates is preposterous. I know not what fee 
Monsieur Love expects ; but if he contrive to amuse 
Monsieur de Vaudemont, and to frustrate every connexion 
he proposes to form, that fee, whatever it may be, shall 
be doubled. Do you understand me ? ” 

“ Perfectly, madam ; yet it is not your offer that will 
bias me, but the desire to oblige so charming a lady.” 

“ It is agreed, then ? ” said the lady, carelessly ; and 
as she spoke, she again glanced at Philip. 

“ If madame will call again, I will inform her of my 
plans,” said Mr. Love. 

“Yes, I will call again. Good morning I ” As she 
rose and passed Philip, she wholly put aside her veil, 
and looked at him with a gaze entirely free from coquetry, 
but curious, searching, and perhaps admiring — the look 
that an artist may give to a picture that seems of more 
value than the place where he finds it would seem to 
indicate. The countenance of the lady herself was fair 
and noble, and Philip felt a strange thrill at his heart as, 
with a slight inclination of her head, she turned from 
the room. 

“Ah ! ” said Gawtrey, laughing, “ this is not the first 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 325 

time I have been paid by relations to break off the 
marriages I had formed. Egad ! if one could open a 
bureau to make married people single, one would soon 
be- a Croesus! Well, then, this decides me to complete 
the union between Monsieur Goupille and Mademoiselle 
de Courval. I had balanced a little hitherto between 
the epicier and the Vicomte. Now I will conclude 
matters. Do you know, Phil, I think you have made a 
conquest ? ” 

“ Pooh 1 ” said Philip, coloring. 

In effect, that very evening Mr. Love saw both the 
Spicier and Ad&le, and fixed the marriage-day. As 
Monsieur Goupille was a person of great distinction in 
the Faubourg, this wedding was one upon which Mr. Love 
congratulated himself greatly ; and he cheerfully accepted 
an invitation for himself and his partners to honor the 
noces with their presence. 

A night or two before the day fixed for the marriage 
of Monsieur Goupille and the aristocratic Adele, when 
Mr. Birnie had retired, Gawtrey made his usual prepara- 
tions for enjoying himself. But this time the cigar and 
the punch seemed to fail of their effect. Gawtrey re- 
mained moody and silent : and Morton was thinking of 
the bright eyes of the lady who was so much interested 
against the amours of the Yicomte de Vaudemont. 

At last, Gawtrey broke silence — 

11 jy[y young friend,” said he, “ I told you of my little 
'protegee ; I have been buying toys for her this morning ; 
she is a beautiful creature : to-morrow is her birth-day — 

I. — 28 


326 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

she will then be six years old. But — but — ” here Gaw- 
trey sighed — “I fear she is not all right here,” and he 
touched his forehead. 

“I should like much to see her,” said Philip, not 
noticing the latter remark. 

“And you shall — you shall come with me to-morrow. 
Heiglio 1 I should not like to die, for her sake 1 ” 

“ Does her wretched relation attempt to regain her ? ” 
“ Her relation ! No ; she is no more — she died about 
two years since 1 Poor Mary! I — well, this is folly. 
But Fanny is at present in a convent ; they are all kind 
to her, but then I pay well ; if I were de&d, and the pay 
stopped — again I ask, what would become of her, unless, 

as I before said, my father ” 

“ But you are making a fortune now ? ” 

“ If this lasts — yes ; but I live in fear — the police of 
this cursed city are lynx-eyed : however, that is the bright 
Bide of the question.” 

“ Why not have the child with you, since you love her 
bo much ? She would be a great comfort to you.” 

“ Is this a place for a child — a girl ! ” said Gawtrey, 
stamping his foot impatiently. “ I should go mad if I 
saw that villanous dead-man’s eye bent upon her ! ” 

“ You speak of Birnie. How can you endure him ! ” 
“When you are my age you will know why we endure 
what we dread — why we make friends of those who else 
would be most horrible foes; no, no — nothing can de- 
liver me of this man but Death. And — and ” added 

Gawtrey, turning pale, “I cannot murder a man who 


V 


NIGHT AND MORN *NG. 32? 

eats my bread. There are stronger ties, my lad, than 
affection, that bind men, like galley-slaves, together. He 
who can hang you puts the halter round your neck, and 
leads you by it like a dog.” 

A shudder came over the young listener. And what 
dark secrets, known only to those two, had bound, to a 
man seemingly his .subordinate and tool, the strong will 
and resolute temper of William Gawtrey ? 

“ But, begone, dull care 1 ” exclaimed Gawtrey, rousing 
himself. “ And, after all, Birnie is a useful fellow, and 
dare no more turn against me than I against him ! Why 
don’t you drink more ? ” 

‘ Oh ! have you e’er heard of the famed Captain Wattle V ” 
and Gawtrey broke out into a loud Bacchanalian hymn, 
in which Philip could find no mirth, and from which the 
songster suddenly paused to exclaim — 

“ Mind you say nothing about Fanny to Birnie ; my 
secrets with him are not of that nature. He could not 
hurt her, poor lamb ! it is true — at least, as far as I can 
foresee. But one can never feel too sure of one’s lamb, 
if one once iutroduces it to the butcher I ” 

The next day being Sunday, the bureau was closed, 
and Philip and Gawtrey repaired to the convent. It was 
a dismal-looking ‘place as to the exterior; but, within, 
there was a large garden, well kept, and, notwithstanding 
the winter, it seemed fair and refreshing, compared with 
the polluted streets. The window of the room into which 
they were shown looked upon the green sward, with walls 
covered with ivy at the farther end. And Philip’s own 


328 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

childhood came back to him as he gazed on the quiet of 
the lonely place. 

The door opened — an infant voice was heard, a voice 
of glee — of rapture ; and a child, light and beautiful as 
a fairy, bounded to Gawtrey’s breast. 

Nestling there, she kissed his face, his hands, his 
clothes, with a passion that did not seem to belong to her 
age, laughing and sobbing almost at a breath. 

On his part, Gawtrey appeared equally affected ; he 
stroked down her hair with his huge hand, calling her all 
manner of pet names, in a tremulous voice that vainly 
struggled to be gay. 

At length he took the toys he had brought with him 
from his capacious pockets, and strewed them on the 
floor, fairly stretched his vast bulk along ; while the child 
tumbled over him, sometimes grasping at the toys, and 
then again returning to his bosom, and laying her head 
there, looking up quietly into his eyes, as if the joy were 
too much for her. 

Morton, unheeded by both, stood by with folded arms. 
He thought of his lost and ungrateful brother, and mut- 
tered to himself, — 

“ Fool ! when she is older, she will forsake him ! ” 

Fanny betrayed in her face the Italian origin of her 
father. She had that exceeding richness of complexion 
which, though not common even in Italy, is only to be 
found in the daughters of that land, and which harmonized 
well with the purple lustre of her hair, and the full, clear 
iris of the dark eyes. Never were parted cherries brighter 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


329 


than her dewy lips ; and the color of the open neck and 
the rounded arms was of a whiteness still more dazzling*, 
from the darkness of the hair and the carnation of the 
glowing cheek. 

Suddenly Fanny started from Gawtrey ’s arms, and 
running up to Morton, gazed at him wistfully, and said, 
in French, — 

“ Who are you ? Do you come from the moon ? — I 
think you do.” Then stopping abruptly, she broke into a 
verse of a nursery-song, which she chaunted with a low, 
listless tone, as if she were not conscious of the sense. 
As she thus sung, Morton, looking at her, felt a strange 
and painful doubt seize him. The child’s eyes, though 
soft, were so vacant in their gaze. 

“And why do I come from the moon ? n said he. 

“ Because you look sad and cross. I don’t like you — 
I don’t like the moon, it gives me a pain here ! ” and she 
put her hand to her temples. “ Have you got anything 
for Fanny — poor, poor Fanny ? ” and, dwelling on the 
epithet, she shook her head mournfully. 

“You are rich, Fanny, with all those toys.” 

“Am I ?— everybody calls me poor Fanny — everybody 
but papa ; ” and she ran again to Gawtrey, and laid her 
head on his shoulder. 

“ She calls me papa I ” said Gawtrey, kissing her ; “ you 
hear it ? — Bless her 1 ” 

“And you never kiss any one but Fanny — you have no 
other little girl ? ” said the child, earnestly, and with a 
look less vacant than that which had saddened Morton. 

28 * 


380 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ No other — no — nothing under heaven, and perhaps 
above it, but you ! ” and he elapsed her in his arms. 
“But,” he added, after a pause — “but mind me, Fanny, 
you must like this gentleman. He will be always good 
to you : and he had a little brother whom he was as fond 
of as I am of you.” 

“ No, I won’t like him — I won’t like anybody but you 
and my sister 1 ” 

“ Sister ! — who is your sister ? ” 

The child’s face relapsed into an expression almost of 
idiocy. “I don’t know — I never saw her, I hear her 
sometimes, but I don’t understand what she says. — Hush ! 
— come here ! ” and she stole to the window on tiptoe. 
GUwtrey followed and looked out. 

“ Do you hear her, now ? ” said Fanny. “ What does 
she say ? ” 

As the girl spoke, some bird among the evergreens 
uttered a shrill, plaintive cry, rather than song, — a sound 
which the thrush occasionally makes in the winter, and 
which seems to express something of fear, and pain, and 
impatience. 

“ What does she say ? — can you tell me ? ” asked the 
child. 

“ Pooh ! that is a bird ; why do you call it your sister ? ” 

“ I don’t know 1 — because it is — because it — because — 
I don’t know — is it not in pain ? — do something for it, 
papa ! ” 

Gawtrey glanced at Morton, whose face betokened his 
deep pity, and creeping up to him, whispered, — 


NIGHT AND MOHNING. 


331 


“Do you think she is really touched here ? No, no, 
she will outgrow it — I am sure she will I 

Morton, sighed. 

Fanny by this time had again seated herself m the 
middle of the floor, and arranged her toys, but without 
seeming to take pleasure in them. 

At last Gawtrey was obliged to depart. The lay sister, 
who had charge of Fanny, was summoned into the parlor, 
and then the child’s manner entirely changed, — her face 
grew purple — she sobbed with as much anger as grief ; 
“ she would not leave papa — she would not go — that she 
would not 1 ” 

“ It is always so,” whispered Gawtrey to Morton, in 
an abashed and apologetic voice. “ It is so difficult to 
got away from her. Just .go and talk with her while I 
steal out.” 

Morton went to her, as she struggled with the patient, 
good-natured sister, and began to soothe and caress her, 
till she turned on him her large humid eyes, and said, 
mournfully, — 

“ Tu es mtchant, tu. Poor Fanny ! ” 

“But this pretty doll ” began the sister. 

The child looked at it joylessly, — 

“And papa is going to die ! ” 

“Whenever Monsieur goes,” whispered the nun, “she 
always says that he is dead, and cries herself quietly to 
sleep ; when Monsieur returns, she says he is come to life 
again. Some one, I suppose, once talked to her about 
death ; and uhe thinks when she loses sight of any one, 
that that is death.” 


332 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Poor child !” said Morton, with a trembling voice. 

The child looked up, smiled, stroked his cheek with her 
little hand, and said, — 

“ Thank you ! — Yes ! — poor Fanny ! Ah, he is going 
— see! — let me go too — tu es mtchant.” 

“But,” said Morton, detaining her gently, “do you 
know that you give him pain ? — you make him cry by 
showing pain yourself. Don’t make him so sad ! ” 

The child seemed struck, hung down her head for a 
moment, as if in thought, and then, jumping from Mor- 
ton’s lap, ran to Gawtrey, put up her pouting lips, and 
said, — 

“ One kiss more 1 ” 

Gawtrey kissed her, and turned away his head. 

“ Fanny is a good girl ; ” and Fanny, as she spoke, 
went back to Morton, and put her little fingers into her 
eyes, as if either to shut out Gawtrey’s retreat from her 
sight, or to press back her tears. 

“Give me the doll now, sister Marie.” 

Morton smiled and sighed, placed the child, who strug- 
gled no more, in the nun’s arms, and left the room ; but 
as he closed the door, he looked back, and saw that Fanny 
had escaped from the sister, thrown herself on the floor, 
and was crying, but not loud. 

“ Is she not a little darling ? ” said Gawtrey, as they 
gained the street. 

“ She is, indeed, a most beautiful child ! ” 

“ And you will love her if I leave her penniless,” said 
Gawtrey abruptly. “ It was your love for vour mother 




NIGHT AND MORNING. 33S 

and your brother that made me like you from the first. 
Ay,” continued Gawtrey, in a tone of great earnestness, 
— “ ay, and whatever may happen to me, I will strive and 
keep you, my poor lad, harmless ; and what is better, in- 
nocent even of such matters as sit light enough on my 
own well-seasoned conscience. In turn, if ever you have 
the power, be good to her, — yes, be good to her ! and I 
won’t say a harsh word to you if ever you like to turn 
king’s evidence against myself.” 

“ Gawtrey ! ” said Morton, reproachfully, and almost 
fiercely. 

“Bah! — such things are! But tell me honestly, do 
you think she is very strange — very deficient ? ” 

“ I have not seen enough of her to judge,” answered 
Morton, evasively. 

“ She is so changeful,” persisted Gawtrey ; “ sometimes 
you would say that she was above her age, she comes out 
with such thoughtful, clever things ; then, the next mo- 
ment, she throws me into despair. These nuns are very 
skilful in education ; — at least, they are said to be so. 
The doctors give me hope, too ; you see her poor mother 
was very unhappy at the time of her birth, — delirious, 
indded, — that may account for it. I often fancy that it 
is the constant excitement which her state occasions me, 
that makes me love her so much ; you see she is one who 
can never shift for herself. I must get money for her ; I 
have left a little already with the superior, and I would 
not touch it to save myself from famine ! If she has 
money, people will be kind enough to her. And then,” 


334 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


continued Gawtrey, “you must perceive that she loves 
nothing in the world but me — me, whom nobody else 
loves ! Well — well, now to the shop again ! ” 

On returning home, the bonne informed them that a 
lady had called, and asked both for Monsieur Love and 
the young gentleman, and seemed much chagrined at 
missing both. By the description, Morton guessed she 
was the fair incognita, and felt disappointed at having lost 
the interview. 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ The cursed carle was at his wonted trade, 

Still tempting heedless men into his snare, 

In witching wise, as I before have said ; 

But when he saw, in goodly gear array’d, 

The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, 

His countenance fell.” — Thomson : Castle of Indolence. 

The morning rose that was to unite Monsieur Goupille 
with Mademoiselle Ad&le de Courval. The ceremony was 
performed, and bride and bridegroom went through that 
trying ordeal with becoming gravity. Only the elegant 
Adele seemed more unaffectedly agitated than Mr. Love 
could well account for ; she was very nervous in church, 
and more often turned her eyes to the door than to the 
altar. Perhaps she wanted to run away ; but it was either 
too late or too early for that proceeding. The rite per- 
formed, the happy pair and their friends adjourned to the 
Gadran Bleu , that restaurant so celebrated in tne festivi- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


385 


ties of the good citizens of Paris Here Mr. Love had 
ordered, at the Spider's expense, a most tasteful enter- 
tainment. * 

“ Sacre ! but you have not played the economist, Mon- 
sieur Lofe,” said Monsieur Goupille, rather querulously, 
as he glanced at the long room adorned with artificial 
flowers, and the table & cinquante converts. 

“ Bah,” replied Mr. Love, “ you can retrench afterwards. 
Think of the fortune she brought you.” 

“ It is a pretty sum, certainly,” said Monsieur Goupille, 
‘‘and the notary is perfectly satisfied.” 

“ There is not a marriage in Paris that does me more 
credit,” said Mr. Love ; and he marched off to receive 
the compliments and congratulations that awaited him 
among such of the guests as were aware of his good offices. 
The Yicomte de Yaudemont was of course not present. 
He had not been near Mr. Love since Adele had accepted 
the Spicier. But Madame Beavor, in a white bonnet lined 
with lilac, was hanging, sentimentally, on the arm of the 
Pole, who looked very grand with his white favor ; and 
Mr. Higgins had been introduced, by Mr. Love, to a little 
dark Creole, who wore paste diamonds, and had very 
languishing eyes ; so that Mr. Love’s heart might well 
swell with satisfaction at the prospect of the various blisses 
to come, which might owe their origin to his benevolence. 
In fact, that archpriest of the Temple of Hymen was never 
more great than he was that day ; never did his establish- 
ment seem more solid, his reputation more popular, or his 
fortune more sure. He was the life of the party. 


386 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


The banquet over, the revellers prepared for a dance. 
Monsieur Goupille, in tights, still tighter than he usually 
wore, and of a rich nankeen, quite jaew, with striped silk 
stockings, opened the ball with the lady of a rich patissier 
in the same Faubourg; Mr. Love took out the bride. 
The evening advanced ; and after several other dances of 
ceremony, Monsieur Goupille conceived himself entitled 
to dedicate one to connubial affection. A country-dance 
was called, and the epicier claimed the fair hand of the 
gentle Adele. About this time} two persons, not hitherto 
perceived, had quietly entered the room, and, standing 
near the doorway, seemed examining the dancers, as if 
in search for some one. They bobbed their heads up and 
down, to and fro — now stopped — now stood on tiptoe. 
The one was a tall, large- whiskered, fair-haired man ; the 
other, a little, thin, neatly dressed person, who kept his 
hand on the arm of his companion, and whispered to him 
from time to time. The whiskered gentleman replied in 
a guttural tone, which proclaimed his origin to be Ger- 
man. The busy dancers did not perceive the strangers. 
The bystanders did, and a hum of curiosity circled round ; 
who could they be? — who had invited them? — they 
were new faces in the Faubourg — perhaps relations to 
Ad&le ? / 

In high delight the fair bride was skipping down the 
middle, while Monsieur Goupille, wiping his forehead 
with care, admired her agility ; when, lo and behold 1 the 
whiskered gentleman I have described, abruptly advanced 
from his companion, and cried — 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 33? 

“La voild ! — sacre tonnerre /” 

At that voice — at that apparition, the bride halted 
bo suddenly iudeed, ^hat she had not time to put down 
both feet, but remained with one high in the air, while 
the other sustained itself on the light fantastic toe. The 
company naturally imagined this to be an operatic flourish, 
which called for approbation. Monsieur Love, who was 
thmndering down behind her, cried “ Bravo ! ” and as the 
well-grown gentleman had to make a sweep to avoid dis- 
turbing her equilibrium, he came full against the whiskered 
stranger, and sent him off as a bat sends a ball. 

“ Mon Lieu!” cried Monsieur Goupille. “ Ma douce 
amie — she has fainted away ! ” And, indeed, Adele had 
no sooner recovered her balance, than she resigned it 
once more into the arms of the startled Pole, who was 
happily at hand. 

In the mean time, the German stranger, who had saved 
himself from falling by coming with his full force upon 
the toes of Mr. Higgins, again advanced to the spot, and, 
rudely seizing the fair bride by the arm, exclaimed,' — 

“ Ho sham if you please, madame — speak ! What the 
devil have you done with the money ? ” 

“ Really, sir,” said Monsieur Goupille, drawing up his 
cravat, “ this is very extraordinary conduct 1 What have 
you got to say to this lady’s money? — it is my money 
now, sir ! ” 

“ Oho ! it is, is it ? we’ll soon see that. Approchez 
done , Monsieur Favart, faites votre devoir'” * 

* Approach, then, Monsieur Favart, and do your duty. 

I. — 29 w 


338 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


At these words the small companion of the strangei 
slowly sauntered to the spot, while at the sound of his 
name and the tread of his step, the throng gave way to 
the right and left. For Monsieur Favart was one of the 
most renowned chiefs of the great Parisian police. — a 
man worthy to be the contemporary of the illustrious 
^Yidocq. 

“ Calmez vous, messieurs ; do not be alarmed, ladies/ 
said this gentleman, in the mildest of all human voices ; 
and certainly no oil dropped on the waters ever produced 
so tranquillizing an effect as that small, feeble, gentle 
tenor. The Pole in especial, who was holding the fair 
bride with both his arms, shook all over, and seemed 
about to let his burden gradually slide to the floor, when 
Monsieur Favart, looking at him with a benevolent smile, 
said, — 

11 Aha, mon brave! c'est toi. Bestez done. Restez, 
tenant toujours la dame ! ” * 

The Pole, thus condemned, in the French idiom, “ al- 
ways to hold the dame,” mechanically raised the arms he 
had previously dejected, and the police officer, with an 
approving nod of the head, said, — 

“ Bon ! ne bougez point, e'est ga ! ” j* 

Monsieur Goupille, in equal surprise and indignation 
tc see his better half thus consigned, without any care to 
his own marital feelings, to the arms of another, was 

* Aha, my fine fellow! it’s you. Stay, then. Stay, always hold- 
ing the dame. 

tGood! don’t stir — that’s it 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


33S 


about to snatch her from the Pole, when Monsieur Fa- 
*'art, touching him on the breast with his little finger, 
said, in the suavest manner, — 

“ Mon bourgeois, meddle not with what does not con- 
cern you ! ” 

“ With what does not concern me ! ” repeated Monsieur 
Goupille, drawing himself up to so great a stretch that 
he seemed pulling off his tights the wrong way. “ Ex- 
plain yourself, if you please ! This lady is my wife ! ” 
“Say that again, — that’s all!” cried the whiskered 
stranger, in most horrible French, and with a furious 
grimace, as he shook both his fists just under the nose of 
the epicier. 

“ Say it again, sir,” said Monsieur Goupille, by no 
means daunted ; “ and why should not I say it again ? — 
That lady is my wife ! ” 

“You lie! — she is mine ! ” cried the German; and 
bending down, he caught the fair Adele from the Pole 
with as little ceremony as if she had never had a great- 
grandfather a marquis, and giving her a shake that might 
have roused the dead, thundered out, — 

“ Speak ! Madame Bihl ! Are you my wife, or not ? ” 
“ Monstre ! ” murmured Adele, opening her eyes. 
“There — you hear — she owns me!” said the Ger- 
man, appealing to the company with a triumphant air. 

“ G'est vrai! ” said the soft voice of the policeman. 
“And now, pray don’t let us disturb your amusements 
any longer. We have a fiacre at the door. RemovG 
your lady, Monsieur Bihl." 


340 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Monsieur Lofe ! — Monsieur Lofe ! ” cried, or rather 
screeched, the epicier, darting across the room, and 
seizing the chef by the tail of his coat, just as he was 
half-way through the door, “ Come back ! Quelle mau - 
vaise plaisanterie me faites-vous ici ? * Did you not tell 
me that lady was single ? Am I married or not ? Do I 
stand on my head or my heels ? ” 

“Hush — hush ! mon bon bourgeois ! ” whispered Mr. 
Love, “ all shall be explained to-morrow ! ” 

“Who is this gentleman?” asked Monsieur Favart, 
approaching Mr. Love, who seeing himself in for it, 
suddenly jerked off the epicier, thrust his hands down into 
his breeches pockets, buried his chin in his cravat, elevated 
his eyebrows, screwed in his eyes, and puffed out his 
cheeks, so that the astonished Monsieur Goupille really 
thought himself bewitched, and literally did not recognise 
the face of the match-maker. 

“Who is this gentleman ?” repeated the little officer, 
standing beside, or rather below, Mr. Love, and looking 
so diminutive by the contrast, that you might have fancied 
that the Priest of Hymen had only to breathe to blow 
him away. 

“ Who should he be, monsieur ? ” cried, with great 
pertness, Madame Rosalie Caumartin, coming to the 
relief, with the generosity of her sex. — “ This is Monsieur 
Lofe — Anglais celebre. What have you to say against 
him ? ” 


* What scurvy trick is this you’re playing me > 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


341 


“ He lias got five hundred francs of mine ! ” cried the 
Spicier. 

The policeman scanned Mr. Love, with great attention. 
“ So you are in Paris again? — Hein! — vousjouez tou- 
jour s votre role!” * 

u Mafoi!” said Mr. Love, boldly; “I don’t under- 
stand what monsieur means ; my character is well known 
— go and inquire it in London — ask the Secretary of 
Foreign Affairs what is said of me — inquire of my 

Ambassador — demand of my ” 

“ Votre passeport, monsieur?” 

“ It is at home. A gentleman does not carry his 
passport in his pocket when he goes to a ball ! ” 

11 1 will call and see it — au revoir! Take my advice 
and leave Paris ; I think I have seen you somewhere ! ” 

“ Yet I have never had the honor to marry monsieur ! ” 
said Mr. Love, with a polite bow. 

In return for his joke, the policeman gave Mr. Love 
one look— it was a quiet look, very quiet ; but Mr. Love 
seemed uncommonly affected by it ; he did not say another 
word, but found himself outside the house in a twinkling. 
Monsieur Pavart turned round and saw the Pole making 
himself as small as possible behind the goodly propor- 
tions of Madame Beavor. 

“ What name does that gentleman go by ? ” 

<“ So — vo — lofski, the heroic Pole,” cried Madame 
Beavor, with sundry misgivings at the unexpected 
20wardice of so great a patriot. 


29 * 


* You’re always acting your part. 


342 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Hein l take care of yourselves, ladies. I have 
nothing against that person this time. But Monsieur 
Latour has served his apprenticeship at the galleys, and 
is no more a Pole than I am a Jew.” 

“And this lady’s fortune I ” cried Monsieur Goupille, 
pathetically ; “ the settlements are all made — the notaries 
all paid. I am sure there must be some mistake.” 

Monsieur Bihl, who had by thjs time restored his lost 
Helen to her senses, stalked up to the epicier } dragging 
the lady along with him. 

“ Sir, there is no mistake ! But, when I have got the 
money, if you like to have the lady you are welcome to 
her.” 

“ Monstre ! ” again muttered the fair Adele. 

“ The long and the short of it,” said Monsieur Pavart, 
“is, that Monsieur Bihl is a brave gargon, and has been 
half over the world as a courier.” 

“A courier ! ” exclaimed several voices. 

“ Madame was nursery-governess to an English milord. 
They married, and quarrelled — no harm in that, mes 
amis; nothing more common. Monsieur Bihl is a very 
faithful fellow ; nursed his last master in an illness that 
ended fatally, because he travelled with his doctor. 
Milord left him a handsome legacy — he retired from 
service, and fell ill perhaps from idleness or beer. Is not 
that the story, Monsieur Bihl ? ” 

“He was always drunk — the wretch ! ” sobbed Ad61e. 

“ That was to drown my domestic sorrows,” said the 
German ; “and when I was sick in my bed, madame ran 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


343 


off with my money. Thanks to monsieur, I have found 
both, and I wish you a very good-night. ” 

“ Dansez vous toujours, mes amis,” said the officer, 
bowing. And following Ad&le and her spouse, the little 
man left the room — where he had caused, in chests so 
broad and limbs so doughty, much the same consterna- 
tion as that which some diminutive ferret occasions in a 
burrow of rabbits twice his size. 

Morton had out-stayed Mr. Love. But he thought it 
unnecessary to linger long after that gentleman’s de- 
parture ; and, in the general hubbub that ensued, he 
crept out unperceived, and soon arrived at the bureau. 
He found Mr. Love and Mr. Birnie already engaged in 
packing up their effects. “ Why— when did you leave ? ” 
said Morton to Mr. Birnie. 

“I saw the policeman enter.” 

“And why the deuce did not you tell us ? ” said 
Gawtrey. 

“Every man for himself. Besides, Mr. Love was 
dancing,” replied Mr. Birnie, with a dull glance of 
disdain. § 

“ Philosophy ! ” muttered Gawtrey, thrusting his dress- 
coat into his trunk ; then suddenly changing his voice, 
“ Ha ! ha ! it was a very good joke after all — own I did 
it well. Ecod ! if he had not given me that look, I 
think I should have turned the tables on him. But 

those d d fellows learn of the mad doctors how to 

tame us. Eaith, my heart went down to my shoes — yet 
Pm no coward 1 ” 


€544 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

“But, after all, he evidently did not know you,” said 
Morton ; “ and what has he to say against you. Your 
trade is a strange one, but not dishonest. Why give up 
as if ” 

“My young friend,” interrupted Gawtrey, “whether 
the officer comes after us or not, our trade is ruined : that 
infernal Adele, with her fabulous grandmaman, has done 
for us. Goupille will blow the temple about our ears. 
No help for it — eh, Birnie?” 

“None.” 

“ Go to bed, Philip : we’ll call thee at daybreak, for 
we must make clean work before our neighbors open their 
shutters. ” 

Reclined, but half undressed, on his bed in the little 
cabinet, Morton revolved the events of the evening. The 
thought that he should see no more of that white hand 
and that lovely mouth, which still haunted his recollection 
as appertaining to the incognita, greatly indisposed him 
towards the abrupt flight intended by Gawtrey, while (so 
much had his faith in that person depended upon respect 
for {jis confident daring, and so thoroughly fearless was 
Morton’s own nature) he felt himself greatly shaken in 
his allegiance to the chief, by recollecting the effect pro- 
duced on his valor by a single glance from the instrument 
of law. He had not yet lived long enough to be aware 
that men are sometimes the Representatives of Things ; 
that what the scytale was to the Spartan hero, a sheriff’s 
writ often is to a Waterloo medallist ; that a Bow Street 
runner will enter the foullest den where Murder sits with 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


345 


nis fellows, and pick out his prey with the beck of hi& 
forefinger. That, in short, the thing called Law, once 
made tangible and present, rarely fails to palsy the fierce 
heart of the thing called Crime. For Law is the symbol 
of all mankind reared against One Foe — the Man of 
Crime. Not yet aware of this truth, nor, indeed, in the 
least suspecting Gawtrey of worse offences than those of 
a charlatanic and equivocal profession, the young man 
mused over his protector’s cowardice in disdain and 
wonder ; till, wearied with conjectures, distrust, and shame 
at his own strange position of obligation to one whom 
he could not respect, he fell asleep. 

When, he woke he saw the grey light of dawn that 
streamed cheerlessly through his shutterless window, 
struggling with the faint ray of a candle that Gawtrey, 
shading with his hand, held over the sleeper. He started 
ip, and, in the confusion of waking and the imperfect 
light by which he beheld the strong features of Gawtrey, 
half imagined it was a foe who stood before him. 

“ Take care, man ! ” said Gawtrey, as Morton, in this 
belief, grasped his arm. “You have a precious rough 
gripe of your own. Be quiet, will you ? I have a word 
to say to you.” Here Gawtrey, placing the candle on a 
chair, returned to the door and closed it. 

“ Look you,” he said in a whisper, “I have nearly run 
through my circle of invention ; and my wit, fertile as it 
is, can present to me little encouragement in the future. 
The eyes of this Favart, once on me, every disguise and 
3very double will not long avail. I dare not return to 
29 * 


346 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


London ; I am too well known in Brussels, Berlin, and 
Vienna ” 

“But,” interrupted Morton, raising himself on his arm, 
and fixing his dark eyes upon his host, — “ but you have 
told me again and again that you have committed no 
crime, why then be so fearful of discovery ? ” 

“Why,” repeated Gawtrey, with a slight hesitation 
which he instantly overcame, “ why ! have not you your- 
self learned that appearances have the effect of crimes ? 
— were you not chased as a thief when I rescued you 
from your foe the law ? — are you not, though a boy in 
years, under an alias, and an exile from your own land? 
And how can you put these austere questions to, me, who 
am growing grey in the endeavor to extract sunbeams 
from cucumbers — subsistence from poverty ? I repeat 
that there are reasons why I must avoid, for the present, 
the great capitals. I must sink in life, and take to the 
provinces. Birnie is sanguine as ever : but he is a terri- 
ble sort of comforter. Enough of that. Now to your- 
self: our savings are less than you might expect; to be 
sure, Birnie has been treasurer, and I have laid by a little 
for Fanny, which I will rather starve than touch. There 
remain, however, 150 napoleons and our effects, sold at a 
fourth their value, will fetch 150 more. Here is your 
share. I have compassion on you. I told you I would 
bear you harmless and innocent. Leave us, while yet 
time.” 

It seemed, then, to Morton that Gawtrey had divined 
bis thoughts of shame and escape of the previous night ; 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


347 


perhaps Gawtrey had : and such is the human heart, that, 
instead of welcoming the very release he had half con 
templated, now that it was offered him, Philip shrunk 
from it as a base desertion. 

“ Poor Gawtrey ! ” said he, pushing back the canvass 
bag of gold held cut to him, “you shall not go over the 
world and feel that the orphan you fed and fostered left 
you to starve with your money in his pocket. When you 
again assure me that you have committed no crime, you 
again remind me that gratitude has no right to be severe 
upon the shifts and errors of its benefactor. If you do not 
conform to society, what has society done for me ? No ! I 
will not forsake you in a reverse. Fortune has given you 
a fall. What then ? — courage, and at her again ! ” 

These last words were said so heartily and cheerfully 
as Morton sprang from the bed, that they inspirited 
Gawtrey, who had really desponded of his lot. 

“Well,” said he, “I cannot reject the only friend left 
me ; and while I live But I will make no profes- 

sions. Quick, then, our luggage is already gone, and I 
hear Birnie grunting the rogue’s march of retreat.” 

Morton’s toilette was soon completed, and the three 
associates bade adieu to the bureau. 

Birnie, who was taciturn and impenetrable as ever, 
walked a little before as guide. They arrived, at length, 
at a serrurier’s shop, placed in an alley near the Porte 
St. Denis. The serruri'er himself, a tall, begrimed, 
black-bearded man, was taking the shutters from his shop 
as they approached. He and Birnie exchanged silent 


348 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


nods ; and the former, leaving his work, conducted them 
up a very filthy flight of stairs to an attic, where a bed^ 
two stools, one table, and an old walnut-tree bureau, 
formed the sole articles of furniture. Gawtrey looked 
rather ruefully round the black, low, damp walls, and said, 
in a crest-fallen tone, — 

“We were better off at the Temple of Hymen. But 
get us a bottle of wine, some eggs, and a frying-pan, — 
by Jove, 1 am a capital hand at an omelet 1” 

The serrurier nodded again, grinned, and withdrew. 

“ Best here,” said Birnie, in his calm, passionless voice, 
that seemed to Morton, however, to assume an unwonted 
tone of command. “ I will go and make the best bargain 
I can for our furniture, buy fresh clothes, and engage our 
places for Tours.” 

“ For Tours ? ” repeated Morton. 

“ Yes, there are some English there ; one can live 
wherever there are English,” said Gawtrey. 

“ Hum ! ” grunted Birnie, drily, and buttoning up his 
coat, he walked slowly away. 

About noon he returned with a bundle of clothes, which 
Gawtrey, who always regained his elasticity of spirit 
wherever there was fair play to his talents, examined 
with great attention, and many exclamations of “ Bon, 
c’est ga .” 

“ I have done well with the Jew,” said Birnie, drawing 
from his coat-pocket two heavy bags, “ One hundred and 
eighty napoleons. We shall commence with a good 
capital.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


349 


'* You are right, my friend,” said Gawtrey. 

The serrurier was then despatched to the best resta-u 
rant in the neighborhood, and the three adventurers mads 
a less Socratic dinner than might have been expected. 


CHAPTER YI. 

“ Then out again he flies to wing his mazy round.” 

Thomson’s Castle of Indolence. 

“Again he gazed, ‘It is,’ said he, ‘the same; 

There sits he upright in his seat secure, 

As one whose conscience is correct and pure.’ ’ 

Crabbe. 

The adventurers arrived at Tours, and established 
themselves there in a lodging, without any incident worth 
narrating by the way. 

At Tours, Morton had nothing to do but take his plea- 
sure and enjoy himself. He passed for a young heir ; 
Gawtrey for his tutor — a doctor in divinity ; Birnie for 
his valet. The task of maintenance fell on Gawtrey, who 
hit off his character to a hair ; larded his grave jokes 
with University scraps of Latin ; .looked big and well- 
fed j wore knee-breeches and a shovel hat ; and played 
whist with the skill of a veteran vicar. By his science in 
that game, he made, at first, enough, at least, to defray 
their weekly expenses. But, by degrees, the good people 
at Tours, who, under pretence of health, were there for 
economy, grew shy of so excellent a player ; and though 
I. — 30 


350 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Gawtrey always averred solemnly that he played with the 
most scrupulous honor, (an asseveration which Morton, 
at least, implicitly believed,) and no proof to the contrary 
was ever detected, yet a first-rate card-player is always 
a suspicious character, unless the losing parties know 
exactly who he is. The market fell off, and Gawtrey at 
length thought it prudent to extend their travels. 

“Ah ! ” said Mr. Gawtrey, “ the world now-a-days has 
grown so ostentatious, that one cannot travel advan- 
tageously without a post-chariot and four horses.” At 
length they found themselves at Milan, which at that time 
was one of the El Dorados for gamesters. Here, how- 
ever, for want of introductions, Mr. Gawtrey found it 
difficult to get into society. The nobles, proud and rich, 
played high, but were circumspect in their company ; the 
bourgeoisie, industrious and energetic, preserved much 
of the old Lombard shrewdness ; there were no tables 
d’hote and public reunions. Gawtrey saw his little capital 
daily diminishing, with the Alps at the rear, and Poverty 
in the van. At length, always on the qui vive, he con- 
trived to make acquaintance with a Scotch family of 
great respectability. He effected this by picking up a 
snuff-box which the Scotchman had dropped in taking 
out his handkerchief. This politeness paved the way to 
a conversation in which Gawtrey made himself so agree- 
able, and talked with such zest of the Modern Athens, 
and the tricks practised upon travellers, that he was pre- 
sented to Mrs. Macgregor ; cards were interchanged ; 
and, as Mr. Gawtrey lived in tolerable style, the Mac* 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


851 


gregors pronounced him “ a vara genteel mon.” Once 
in the house of a respectable person, Gawtrey contrived 
to turn himself round and round, till he burrowed a hole 
into the English circle then settled in Milan. His whist- 
playing came into requisition, and once more Fortune 
smiled upon Skill. 

To this house the pupil one evening accompanied the 
tutor. When the whist party, consisting of two tables, 
was formed, the young man found himself left out with an 
old gentleman, who seemed loquacious and good-natured, 
and who put many questions to Morton, which he found 
it difficult to answer. One of the whist-tables was now in 
a state of revolution, viz., a lady had cut out, and a gen- 
tleman cut in, when the door opened, and Lord Lilburne 
was announced. 

Mr. Macgregor, rising, advanced with great respect to 
this personage. 

“ I scarcely ventured to hope you would coom, Lord 
Lilburne, the night is so cold.’ 

“You did not allow sufficiently, then, for the dullness 
of my solitary inn and the attractions of your circle. Aha 1 
whist, I see.” 

“ You play sometimes ? ” 

“ Very seldom, now ; I have sown all my wild oats, and 
even the ace of spades can scarcely dig them out again.” 

“Ha! ha! vara gude.” 

“ I will look on and Lord Lilburne drew his chair to 
the table, exactly opposite to Mr. Gawtrey. 

The old gentleman turned to Philip. 


352 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“_An extraordinary man, Lord Lilburne ; you have 
heard of him, of course?” 

“No, indeed, what of him?” asked the young man, 
rousing himself. 

“ What of him ? ” said the old gentleman, with a smile ; 
“ why the newspapers, if you ever read them, will tell you 
enough of the elegant, the witty Lord Lilburne ; a man 
of eminent talent, though indolent. He was wild in his 
youth, as clever men often are ; but, on attaining his title 
and fortune, and marrying into the family of the then 
premier, he became more sedate. They say he might 
make a great figure in politics if he would. He has a 
very high reputation — very. People do say he is still 
fond of pleasure, but that is a common failing amongst the 
aristocracy. Morality is only found in the middle classes, 
young gentleman. It is a lucky family, that of Lilburne ; 
his sister, Mrs. Beaufort • 

“ Beaufort ! ” exclaimed Morton, and then muttered to 
himself, — “ Ah, true — true, I have heard the name of 
Lilburne before.” 

“Do you know the Beauforts ? Well, you remember 
how luckily Robert, Lilburne’s br v other-in-law, came into 
that fine property just as his predecessor was about to 
marry a ” 

Morton scowled at his garrulous acquaintance, and 
stalked abruptly to the card-table. 

Ever since Lord Lilburne had seated himself opposite 
to Mr. Gawtrey, that gentleman had evinced a perturba- 
tion of manner that became obvious to the company. He 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


353 


grew deadly pale, his hands trembled, he moved uneasily 
in his seat, he missed deal, he trumped his partner’s best 
diamond, finally he revoked, threw down his money, and 
said, with a forced smile, “ That the heat of the room 
overcame him.” As he rose, Lord Lilburne rose also, 
and the eyes of both met. Those of Lilburne were calm, 
but penetrating and inquisitive in their gaze ; those of 
Gawtrey were like balls of fire. He seemed gradually 
to dilate in his height, his broad chest expanded, he 
breathed hard. 

“Ah, Doctor,” said Mr. Macgregor, “let me introduce 
you to Lord Lilburne.” 

The peer bowed haughtily ; Mr. Gawtrey did not re- 
turn the salutation, but with a sort of gulp as if he were 
swallowing some burst of passion, strode to the fire ; and 
then turning round, again fixed his gaze upon the new 
guest. Lilburne, however, who had never lost his self- 
composure at this strange rudeness, was now quietly 
talking with their host. 

“ Your doctor seems an eccentric man — a little absent 
— learned I suppose. Have you been to Como, yet ? ” 

Mr. Gawtrey remained by the fire beating the devil’s 
tattoo upon the chimney-piece, and ever and anon turning 
his glance towards Lilburne, who seemed to have forgot- 
ten his existence. 

s 

Both these guests stayed till the party broke up ; Mr. 
G awtrey apparently wishing to outstay Lord Lilburne ; 
for, when the last went down stairs, Mr. Gawtrey, nodding 
to his comrade, and giving a hurried bow to the host, 
30 * 


354 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


descended also. As they passed the porter’s lodge, they 
found Lilburne on the step of his carriage ; he turned his 
head abruptly, and again met Mr. Gawtrey’s eye ; paused 
a moment, and whispered over his shoulder, 

“ So we remember each other, sir ? — Let us not meet 
again ; and on that condition, by-gones are by-gones.” 

“ Scoundrel ! ” muttered Gawtrey, clenching his fists ; 
but the peer had sprung into his carriage with a lightness 
scarcely to be expected from his lameness, and the wheels 
whirled within an inch of the soi-disant doctor’s right 
pump. 

Gawtrey walked on for some moments in great excite- 
ment ; at length he turned to his companion : 

“ po you guess who Lord Lilburne is ? I will tell you 
—my first foe and Fanny’s grandfather ! Now, note the 
/ justice of Fate : Here is this man— mark well — this man 
who commenced life by putting his faults on my own 
shoulders! From that little boss has fungused out a 
terrible hump. This man who seduced my -affianced bride, 
and then left her whole soul, once fair and blooming — I 
swear it — with its leaves fresh from the dews of heaven, 
one rank leprosy,— this man who, rolling in riches, learned 
to cheat and pilfer as a boy learns to dance and play the 
fiddle, and (to damn me, whose happiness he had blasted) 
accused me to the world of his own crime ! — here is this 
man who has not left off one vice, but added to those of 
his youth the bloodless craft of the veteran knave ; — 
here is this man, flattered, courted, great, marching 
through lanes of bowing parasites to an illustrious epi' 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


355 


tapli and a marble tomb, and I, a rogue too, if you will, 
but rogue for my bread, dating from him my errors and 
my ruin ! I — vagabond — outcast — skulking through 
tricks to avoid crime — why the difference ? Because one 
is born rich and the other poor — because he has no ex- 
cuse for crime, and therefore no one suspects him ! ” 

The wretched man (for at that moment he was wretched) 
paused breathless from his passionate and rapid burst, 
and before him rose in its marble majesty, with the moon 
full upon its shining spires — the wonder of Gothic Italy 
the Cathedral Church of Milan. 

“ Chafe not yourself at the universal fate,” said the 
young man, with a bitter smile on his lips and pointing to 
the cathedral, “ I have not lived long, but I have learned 
already enough to know this — he who could raise a pile 
like that, dedicated to heaven, would be honored as a 
saint; he who knelt to God by the road-side under a 
hedge would be sent to the house of correction as a vaga- 
bond ! The difference between man and man is money, 
and will be, when you, the despised charlatan, and Lil- 
burne, the honored cheat, have not left as much dust be- 
hind you as will fill a snuff-box. Comfort yourself ; you 
are in the majority.” 


356 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“A desert "wild 

Before them stretched bare, comfortless, and vast, 

With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled.” 

Thomson’s Castle of Indolence. 

Mr. Gawtrey did not wish to give his foe the triumph 
of thinking he had driven him from Milan ; he resolved 
to stay and brave it out ; but when he appeared in public, 
he found the acquaintances he had formed bow politely, 
but cross to the other side of the way. No more invita- 
tions to tea and cards showered in upon the jolly parson. 
He was puzzled, for people, while they shunned him, did 
not appear uncivil. He found out at last that a report 
was circulated that he was deranged ; though he could 
not trace this rumor to Lord Lilburne, he was at no loss 
to guess from whom it had emanated. His own eccentri- 
cities, especially his recent manner at Mr. Macgregor’s, 
gave confirmation to the charge. Again the funds began 
to sink low in the canvass bags and, at length, in despair, 
Mr. Gawtrey was obliged to quit the field. They returned 
to France through Switzerland — a country too poor for 
gamesters ; and ever since the interview with Lilburne, a 
great change had come over Gawtrey’s gay spirits : he 
grew moody and thoughtful, he took no -pains to replenish 
the common stock, he talked much and seriously to his 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


a 51 


young friend of poor Fanny, and owned that he yearned 
to see her again. The desire to return to Paris haunted 
him like a fatality : he saw the danger that awaited him 
there, but it only allured him the more, as the candle does 
the moth whose wings it has singed. Birnie, who, in all 
their vicissitudes and wanderings, their ups and downs, 
retained the same tacit, immovable demeanor, received 
with a sneer the orders at last to march back upon the 
French capital : “You would never have left it, if you 
had taken my advice,” he said, and quitted the room. 

Mr. Gawtrey gazed after him and muttered, “ Is the 
die then cast ? ” 

“What does he mean?” said Morton. 

“You will know soon,” replied Gawtrey, and he fol- 
lowed Birnie ; and from that time the whispered confer- 
ences with that person, which had seemed suspended 
during their travels, were renewed. 

* * * * * * 

* * * * * * 

One morning, three men were seen entering Paris on 
foot through the Porte St. Denis. It was a fine day in 
spring, and the old city looked gay with its loitering 
passengers and gaudy shops, and under that clear blue 
exhilarating sky, so peculiar to France. 

Two of these men walked abreast, the other preceded 
them a few steps. The one who went first — thin, pale, 
and threadbare — yet seemed to suffer the least from 
fatigue ; he walked with a long, swinging, noiseless stride, 
looking to the right and left from the corners of his eyes 


358 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Of the two who followed, one was handsome and finely 
formed, but of swarthy complexion, young, yet with a 
look of care ; the other, of sturdy frame, leaned on a 
thick stick, and his eyes were gloomily cast down. 

« Philip,” said the last, “in coming back to Paris — I 
feel that I am coming back to my grave ! ” 

“ Pooh ! you were equally despondent in our excur- 

sions elsewhere.” 

“ Because I was always thinking of poor Fanny, and 
because — because — Birnie was ever at me with his hor- 
rible temptations ! ” 

“Birnie ! I loathe that man ! Will you never get rid 
of him ? ” 

“ I cannot ! Hush ! he will hear us ! How unlucky 
we have been ! and now without a sous in our pockets — 
here the dunghill— there the gaol ! We are in his power 
at last /” 

“ His power ! what mean you ? ” 

“ What ho ! Birnie ! ” cried Gawtrey, unheeding Mor- 
ton’s question, “Let us halt and breakfast: I am tired.” 

“You forget 1 — we have no money till we make it ! ” 
returned Birnie, coldly,— “ Come to the serrurier's — he 
will trust us!” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


359 


CHAPTER. VIII. 

'♦Gaunt Beggary and Scorn with many hell-hounds more.” 

Thomson’s Castle of Indolence 

“The other was a fell, despiteful fiend.” — Ibid. 

“Your happiness behold! then straight a wand 
He waved, an anti-magic power that hath 
Truth from illusive falsehood to command.” — Ibid. 

“But what for us, the children of despair, 

Brought to the brink of hell — what hope remains ? 

Resolve, Resolve ! ” — Ibid. 

It may be observed that there are certain years in 
which in a civilized country some particular crime comes 
into vogue. It flares its season, and then burns out. 
Thus at one time we have Burking — at another, Swingism 

now, suicide is in vogue — now, poisoning trades-people 

in apple-dumplings — now, little boys stab each other 
with pen-knives — now, common soldiers shoot at their 
sergeants. Almost every year there is one crime peculiar 
to it ; a sort of annual which overruns the country, but 
does not bloom again. Unquestionably the Press has a 
great deal to do with these epidemics. Let a newspaper 
once give an account of some out-of-the-way atrocity that 
has the charm of being novel, and certain depraved minds 
fasten to it like leeches. They brood over and revolve 

the idea grows up, a horrid phantasmalian monoma- 



360 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


nia ; * and all of a sudden, in a hundred different places, 
the one seed sown by the leaden types springs up into 
foul flowering. But if the first reported aboriginal crime 
has been attended with impunity, how much more does 
the imitative faculty cling to it 1 Ill-judged mercy falls, 
not like dew, but like a great heap of manure, on the rank 
deed. 

Now it happened that at the time I write of, or rather 
a little before, there had been detected and tried in Paris 
a most redoubted coiner. He had carried on the business 
with a dexterity that won admiration even for the offence ; 
and, moreover, he had served previously with some dis- 
tinction at Austerlitz and Marengo. The consequence 
was that the public went with instead of against him, and 
his sentence was transmuted to three years’ imprisonment 
by the government. For all governments in free countries 
aspire rather to be popular than just. 

No sooner was this case reported in the journals, and 
jven the gravest took notice of it — which is not common 
with the scholastic journals of Prance, — no sooner did it 
make a stir and a sensation, and cover the criminal with 
celebrity, than the result became noticeable in a very 
large issue of false money. 

* An old Spanish writer, treating of the Inquisition, has some 
very striking remarks on the kind of madness which, whenever 
some terrible notoriety is given to a particular offence, leads per- 
sons of distempered fancy to accuse themselves of it. He observes 
that when the cruelties of the Inquisition against the imaginary 
crime of sorcery were the most barbarous, this singular frenzy led 
numbers to accuse themselves of sorcery. The publication and ce- 
lebrity of the crime begat the desire of the crime. 


361 


NIGHT AND MOHNING. 

Coining in the year I now write of was the fashionable 
crime. The police were roused into full vigor : it became 
known to them that there was one gang in especial who 
cultivated this art with singular success. Their coinage 
was, indeed, so good, so superior to all their rivals, that 
it was often unconsciously preferred by the public to the 
real mintage. At the same time they carried on their 
calling with such secrecy, that they utterly baffled dis- 
covery. 

An immense reward was offered. by the bureau to any 
one who would betray his accomplices, and Monsieur 
Favart was placed at the head of a commission of inquiry. 
This person had himself been a faux monnoyer , and was 
an adept in the art, and it was he who had discovered 
the redoubted coiner who had brought the crime into 
such notoriety ; — Monsieur Favart was a man of the 
most vigilant acuteness, the most indefatigable research 
and of a courage which, perhaps, is more common than 
we suppose. It is a popular error to suppose that 
courage means courage in every thing. Put a hero on 
board ship at a five-barred gate, — and if he is not used 
to hunting, he will turn pale. Put a fox-hunter on one 
of the Swiss chasms, over which the mountaineer springs 
like a roe, and his knees will knock under him. — People 
are brave in the dangers to which they accustom them- 
selves, either in imagination or practice. 

Monsieur Favart then was a man of the most daring 
bravery in facing rogues and cut-throats. He awed them 
with his very eye ; yet he had been known to have been 
I. — 31 


362 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


kicked down stairs by his wife, and when he was drawn 
into the grand army, he deserted the eve of his first 
battle. Such, as moralists say, is the inconsistency of 
man ! 

But Monsieur Favart was sworn to trace the coiners, 
and he had never failed yet in any enterprise he under- 
took. One day he presented himself to his chief with a 
countenance so elated, that that penetrating functionary 
said to him at once, — 

“You have heard of our messieurs ! ” 

“ I have : I am to visit them to-night.” 

“Bravo! How many men will you take?” 

“From twelve to twenty, to leave -^without on guard. 
But I must enter alone. Such is the condition : an ac- 
complice who fears his own throat too much to be openly 
a betrayer, will introduce me to the house, — nay, to the 
very room. By his description, it is necessary I should 
know the exact locale in order to cut off retreat ; so to- 
morrow night I shall surround the bee-hive and take the 
honey.” 

“ They are desperate fellows, these coiners always ; 
better be cautious.” 

“ You forget, I was one of them, and know the masonry.” 

About the same time this conversation was going on 
at the bureau of the police, in another part of the town 
Morton and Gawtrey were seated alone. It is some 
weeks since ^hey entered Paris, ai d spring has mellowed 
into summer. The house in which they lodged was in 
the lordly quartier of the Faubourg St. Germain ; the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


363 


neighboring streets were venerable with the ancient edi- 
fices of a fallen noblesse; but their tenement was in a 
narrow, dingy lane, and the building itself seemed beg- 
garly and ruinous. The apartment was in an attic on 
the sixth story, and the window, placed at the back of 
the lane, looked upon another row of houses of a better 
description, that communicated with one of the great 
streets of the quartier. The space between their abode 
and their opposite neighbors was so narrow that the sun 
could scarcely pierce between. In the height of summer 
might be found there a perpetual shade. 

The pair were seated by the window. Gawtrey, well- 
dressed, smooth-shaven, as in his palmy time ; Morton, 
in the same garments with which he had entered Paris, 
weather-stained and ragged. Looking towards the case- 
ments of the attic in the opposite house, Gawtrey said, 
mutteringly, — “ I wonder where Birnie has been, and 
why he is not returned : I grow suspicious of that man.” 

“ Suspicious of what ? ” asked Morton. “ Of his hon- 
esty ? Would he rob you?” 

“ Rob me 1 Humph — perhaps ! But you see I am in 
Paris, in spite of the hints of the police ; he may denounce 
me. ” 

“ Why then suffer him to lodge away from you ? ” 

“ Why ? because, by having separate houses, there are 
two channels of escape. A dark night, and a ladder 
thrown across from window to window, he is with us, or 
we with him.” 

“ But wherefore such precautions ? You blind — you 


864 


NIGHT ANI) MORNING. 


deceive me ; what have you done ? — what is your em< 
pfoyment now ? — You are mute. — Hark you, Gawtrey ! 
I have pinned my fate to you — I am fallen from hope 
itself. At times it almost makes me mad to look back — • 
and yet you do not trust me. Since your return to Paris 
you are absent whole nights — often days ; you are moody 
and thoughtful — yet, whatever your business, it seems to 
bring you ample returns.” 

“You think that,” said Gawtrey, mildly, and with a 
sort of pity in his voice, “yet you refuse to take even the 
money to change those rags.” 

“Because I know not how the money was gained. 
Ah ! Gawtrey ; I am not too proud for charity, but I am 
for ” 

He checked the word uppermost in his thoughts, and 
resumed, — 

“Yes; your occupations seem lucrative. It was but 
yesterday Birnie gave me fifty napoleons, for which he 
said you wished change in silver.” 

“ Did he ? The ras Well ! and you got change 

for them ? ” 

“I know not why, but I refused.” 

“ That was right, Philip. Do nothing that man tells 
you.” 

“Will you then trust me ? You are engaged in some 
horrible traffic ! it may be blood ! I am no longer a boy 
— I have a will of my own — I will not be silently and 
blindly entrapped to perdition. If I march thither, it 
shall be with my own consent. Trust me, and this day, 
or we part to-morrow.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


365 


“Be ruled. Some secrets it is better not to know.” 

“ It matters not ! I have come to my decision : — 1 ask 
yours.” 

Gawtrey paused for some moments in deep thought 
At last, he lifted his eyes to Philip, and replied, — 

“ Well then, if it must be. Sooner or later it must 
have been so, and I want a confidant. You are bold 
and will not shrink. You desire to know my occupation 
— will you witness it to-night ? ” 

“I am prepared : to-night!” 

Here a step was heard on the stairs — a knock at the 
door — and Birnie entered. 

He drew aside Gawtrey, and whispered him, as usual, 
for some moments. 

Gawtrey nodded his head, and then said aloud, — 

“To-morrow we shall talk without reserve before my 
young friend. To-night he joins us.” 

“To-night! — very well!” said Birnie, with his cold 
sneer. “He must take the oath; and you, with your 
life, will be responsible for his honesty ? ” 

“ Ay ! it is the rule.” 

“ Good-bye, then, till we meet,” said Birnie, and with- 
drew. 

“ I wonder,” said Gawtrey, musingly and between his 
grinded teeth, “whether I shall ever have a good fair 
shot at that fellow ? Ho ! ho ! ” and his laugh shook the 
walls. ~ 

Morton looked hard at Gawtrey, as the latter now sunk 
down in his chair, and gazed with a vacant stare, that 
31 * 


366 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


seemed almost to partake of imbecility, upon the opposite 
wall. The careless, reckless, jovial expression, which 
usually characterised the features of the man, had for 
some weeks given place to a restless, anxious, and at times 
ferocious aspect ; like the beast that first finds a sport 
while the hounds are yet afar, and his limbs are yet strong, 
in the chase which marks him for his victim, but grows 
desperate with rage ‘and fear as the day nears its close, 
and the death-dogs pant hard upon his track : but at that 
moment, the strong features, with their gnarled muscle 
and iron sinews, seemed to have lost every sign both of 
passion and the will, and to be locked in a stolid and dull 
repose. At last he looked up at Morton, and said, with 
a smile like that of an old man in his dotage, — 

“I’m thinking that my life has been one mistake ! I 
had talents — you would not fancy it — but once I was 
neither a fool nor a villain ! Odd, isn’t it ? Just reach 
me the brandy.” 

But Morton, with a slight shudder, turned and left the 
room. 

He walked on mechanically, and gained, at last, the 
superb Quai that borders the Seine : there, the passen- 
gers became more frequent ; gay equipages rolled along ; 
the white and lofty mansions looked fair and stately in 
the clear blue sky of early summer ; beside him flowed the 
sparkling river, animated with the painted baths that 
floated on its surface i earth was merry and heaven se- 
rene : his heart was dark through all : Night within 

Morning beautiful without ! At last he paused by that 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


367 


bridge, stately with the statues of those whom the caprice 
of time honors with a name ; for though Zeus and his 
gods be overthrown, while earth exists will live the wor- 
ship of Dead Men ; — the bridge by which you pass from 
w he royal Tuileries, or the luxurious streets beyond the 
Rue de Rivoli, to the Senate of the emancipated People, 
and the gloomy and desolate grandeur of the Faubourg 
St Germain, in whose venerable haunts the impoverished 
descendants of the old feudal tyrants, whom the birth of 
the Senate overthrew, yet congregate ; — the ghosts of 
departed powers proud of the shadows of great names. 
As the English outcast paused midway on the bridge, and 
for the first time lifting his head from his bosom, gazed 
around, there broke at once on his remembrance that 
terrible and fatal evening when, hopeless, friendless, des 
perate, he had begged for charity of his uncle’s hireling, 
with all the feelings that then (so imperfectly and lightly 
touched on in his brief narrative. to Gawtrey) had raged 
and blackened in his breast, urging to the resolution he 
had adopted, casting him on the ominous friendship of 
the man whose guidance he even then had suspected and 
distrusted. The spot in either city had had a certain 
similitude and correspondence each with each : at the 
first, he had consummated his despair of human destinies 

he had dared to forget the Providence of God — he had 

arrogated his fate to himself : by the first bridge he had 
taken his resolve ; by the last he stood in awe at the re- 
sult f — stood no less poor — no less abject — equally in 
rags and squalor ; but was his crest as haughty and his 


368 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


eye as fearless, for was his conscience as free and his 
honor as unstained ? Those arches of stone — those rivers 
that rolled between, seemed to him then to take a more 
mystic and typical sense than belongs to the outer world 
. — they were the bridges to the Rivers of his Life. 
Plunged in thoughts so confused and dim that he could 
scarcely distinguish, through the chaos, the one streak of 
light which, perhaps, heralded the reconstruction or re- 
generation of the elements of his soul ; — two passengers 
halted, also, by his side. 

“You will be late for the debate,” said one of them to 
the other. “Why do you stop?” 

“ My friend,” said the other, “ I never pass this spot 
without recalling the time when I stood here without a 
sou , or, as I thought, a chance of one, and impiously 
meditated self-destruction. ” 

11 You! — now so rich — so fortunate, in repute and 
station ! — is it possible ? How was it ? A lucky chance ? 
— a sudden legacy ? ” 

“No: Time, Faith, and Energy — the three Friends 
God has given to the Poor ! ” 

The men moved on ; but Morton, who had turned his 
face towards them, fancied that the last speaker fixed on 
him his bright, cheerful eye, with a meaning look ; and 
when the man was gone, he repeated those words, and 
hailed them in his heart of hearts as an augury from 
above. 

Quickly, then, and as if by magic, the former confusion 
of his mind seemed to settle into distinct shapes of cour- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


369 


age and resolve. “Yes,” lie muttered; “I will keep 
this night’s appointment — I will learn the secret of these 
men’s life. In my inexperience and destitution, I have 
suffered myself to be led hitherto into a partnership, if 
not with vice and crime, at least with subterfuge and 
trick. I awake from my reckless boyhood — my unworthy 
palterings with my better self. If Gawtrey be as I dread 
to find him — if he be linked in some guilty and hateful 

traffic with that loathsome accomplice — I will ” He 

paused, for his heart whispered, “Well, and even so, — 
the guilty man clothed and fed thee ! ” “ I will,” resumed 
his thought, in answer to his heart — “I will go on my 
knees to him to fly while there is yet time, to work— beg 
— starve — perish even — rather than lose the right to look 
man in the face without a blush, and kneel to his God 
without remorse 1 ” 

And as he thus ended, he felt suddenly as if he himself 
were restored to the perception and the joy of the Nature 
and the World around him ; the night had vanished 
from his soul — he inhaled the balm and freshness of the 

air he comprehended the delight which the liberal June 

was scattering over the earth — he looked above, and his 
eyes were suffused with pleasure, at the smile of the soft 
blue skies. The morning became, as it were, a part of 
his own being ; and he felt that as the world in spite of 
the storms is fair, so in spite of evil God is good. He 
walked on — he passed the bridge, but his step was no 
more the same,— he forgot his rags. Why should he be 
ashamed ? And thus, in the very flush of this new and 
31 * 


Y 


370 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


strange elation and elasticity of spirit, he came unaware* 
upon a group of young men, lounging before the porch 
of one of the chief hotels in that splendid Rue de Rivoli, 
wherein Wealth and the English have made their homes. 
A groom, mounted, was leading another horse up and 
down the road, and the young men were making their 
comments of approbation upon both the horses, especially 
the one led, which was, indeed, of uncommon beauty 
and great value. Even Morton, in whom the boyish pas- 
sion of his earlier life yet existed, paused to turn his ex- 
perienced and admiring eye upon the stately shape and 
pace of the noble animal, and as he did so, a name too 
well remembered came upon his ear. 

“ Certainly, Arthur Beaufort is the most enviable fellow 
in Europe 1 ” 

“ Why, yes,” said another of the young men ; “he has 
plenty of money — is good-looking, devilish good-natured, 
clever, and spends like a prince.” 

“ Has the best horses ! ” 

“ The best luck at roulette J ” 

“ The prettiest girls in love with him ! ” 

“And no one enjoys life more. Ah ! here he is 1 V 
The group parted as a light, graceful figure came out 
of a jeweller’s shop that adjoined the hotel, and halted 
gaily amongst the loungers. Morton’s first impulse was 
to hurry from the spot ; his second impulse arrested his 
step, and, a little apart, and half-hid beneath one of the 
arches of the colonnade which adorns the street, tne Out- 
cast gazed upon the Heir. There was no comparison in 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


371 


the natural personal advantages of the two young men ; 
for Philip Morton, despite all the hardships of his rough 
career, had now grown up and ripened into a rare per- 
fection of form and feature. His broad chest, his erect 
air, his lithe and symmetrical length of limb, united, hap- 
pily, the attributes of activity and strength ; and though 
there was no delicacy of youthful bloom upon his dark 
cheek, and though lines which should have come later 
marred its smoothness with the signs of care and thought, 
yet an expression of intelligence and daring, equally be- 
yond his years, and the evidence of hardy, abstemious, 
vigorous health, served to show to the full advantage the 
outline of features which, noble and regular, though stern 
and masculine, the artist might have borrowed for his 
ideal of a young Spartan arming for his first battle. 
Arthur, slight to feebleness, and with the paleness, partly 
of constitution, partly of gay excess, on his fair and 
clear complexion, had features far less symmetrical and 
impressive than his cousin : but what then ? All that 
are bestowed by elegance of dress, the refinements of 
luxurious habit, the nameless grace that comes from a 
mind and a manner polished — the one by literary culture, 
the other by social intercourse, invested the person of 
the heir with a fascination that rude Nature alone ever 
fails to give. And about him there was a gaiety, an 
airiness of spirit, an atmosphere of enjoyment, which 
bespote one who is in love with life. 

“ Why, this is lucky 1 I’m so glad to see you all ! ” 
said Arthur Beaufort, with that silver-ringing tone, aud 


312 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


charming smile, which are to the happy spring of man 
what its music and its sunshine are to the spring of earth. 
“You must dine with me at Yerey’s. I want something 
to rouse me to-day ; for I did not get home from the 
Salon* till four this morning.” 

“ But you won ? ” 

" Yes, Marsden. Hang it 1 I always win : I who 
could so well afford to lose : I’m quite ashamed of my 
luck 1 ” 

“ It is easy to spend what one wins,” observed Mr. 
Marsden, sententiously ; “ and I see you have been at the 
jeweller’s 1 A present for Cecile ? Well, don’t blush, my 
dear fellow. What is life without women?” 

“And wine ? ” said a second. 

“And play ? ” said a third. 

“And wealth ? ” said a fourth. 

“And you enjoy them all 1 Happy fellow I ” said a fifth. 

The Outcast pulled his hat over his brows, and walked 
away. 

“ This dear Paris 1 ” said Beaufort, as his eye care- 
lessly and unconsciously followed the dark form retreating 
through the arches ; — “ this dear Paris 1 I must make 
the most of it while I stay 1 I have only been here a few 
weeks, and next week I must go.” 

“ Pooh 1— your health is better: you don’t look like 
the same man.” 


* The most celebrated gaming-house in Paris in the day before 
gaming-houses were suppressed by the well-directed energy of the 
government. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


373 


“ You think so really ? Still I don’t know : the doctors 
say that I must either go to the German waters — the 

3 eason is begun — or ” 

“ Or what ? ” 

“Live less with such pleasant companions, my dear 

fellow ! But as you say, what is life without ” 

“Women 1” 

“ Wine I ” 

« Play ! ” 

“ Wealth ! ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ‘ Throw physic, to the dogs : I’ll none of 

it ! ’” 

And Arthur leaped lightly on his saddle, and as he 
rode gaily on, humming the favorite air of the last opera, 
the hoofs of his horse splashed the mud over a foot- 
passenger halting at the crossing. Morton checked the 
fiery exclamation rising to his lips ; and gazing after the 
brilliant form that hurried on towards the Champs Elysees, 
his eye caught the statues on the bridge, and a voice, as 
of a cheering angel, whispered again to his heart, “ time, 
FAITH, ENERGY!” 

The expression of his countenance grew calm at once, 
and as he continued his rambles, it was with a mind that, 
casting off the burdens of the past, looked serenely and 
steadily on the obstacles and hardships of the future. 
We have seen that a scruple of conscience, or of pride, 
not without its nobleness, had made him refuse the 
importunities of Gawtrey for less sordid raiment; the 
same feeling made it his custom to avoid sharing the 
I. — 32 


374 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

luxurious and dainty food with which Gawtrey was wont 
to regale himself. For that strange man, whose wonderful 
felicity of temperament and constitution rendered him, 
in all circumstances, keenly alive to the hearty and animal 
enjoyments of life, would still emerge, as the day de- 
clined, from their wretched apartment, and, trusting to 
his disguises, in which indeed he possessed a masterly 
art, repair to one of the better description of restaurants , 
and feast away his cares for the moment. William Gaw- 
trey would not have cared three straws for the curse of 
Damocles. The sword over his head would never have 
spoiled his appetite ! He had lately, too, taken to drink- 
ing much more deeply than he had been used to do — 
the fine intellect of the man was growing thickened and 
dulled ; and this was a spectacle that Morton could not 
bear to contemplate. Yet so great was Gawtrey’s vigor 
of health, that, after draining wine and spirits enough 
to have despatched a company of fox-hunters, and after 
betraying, sometimes in uproarious glee, sometimes in 
maudlin self-be wailings, that he himself was not quite 
invulnerable to the thyrsus of the god, he would — on 
any call on his energies, or especially before departing on 
those mysterious expeditions which kept him from home 
half, and sometimes all, the night — plunge his head into 
cold water — drink as much of the lymph as a groom 
would have shuddered to bestow on a horse — close his 
eyes in a doze for half an hour, and wake, cool, sober, 
and collected, as if he had lived according to the precepts 
of Socrates or Cornaro I 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


375 


But to return to Morton. It was his habit to avoid 
as much as possible sharing the good cheer of his com- 
panion ; and now, as he entered the Champs Elys6es, he 
saw a little family, consisting of a young mechanic, his 
wife, and two children, who, with that love of harmless 
recreation which yet characterizes the French, hid taken 
advantage of a holiday in the craft, and were enjoying 
their simple meal under the shadow of the trees. Whether 
in hunger or in envy, Morton paused and contemplated 
the happy group. Along the road rolled the equipages 
and trampled the steeds of those to whom all life is a 
holiday. There, was Pleasure — under those trees was 
Happiness. One of the children, a little boy of about 
six years old, observing the attitude and gaze of the 
pausing wayfarer, ran to him, and holding up a fragment 
of a coarse kind of cake, said to him, winningly — 
“ Take it — I have had enough ! ” The child reminded 
Morton of his brother — his heart melted within him — 
he lifted the young Samaritan in his arms, and, as he 
kissed him, wept. 

The mother observed and rose also. She laid her hand 
on his own — “ Poor boy ! why do you weep ? — can we 
relieve you ? ” 

How that bright gleam of human nature, suddenly 
darting across the sombre recollections and associations 
of his past life, seemed to Morton, as if it came from 
Heaven, in approval and in blessing of this attempt at 
reconciliation to his fate. 

“ I thank you,” said he, placing the child on the ground, 


376 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


and passing Ms hand over his eyes, — “I thank you — . 
yes ! Let me sit down amongst you.” And he sat down, 
the child By his side, and partook of their fare, and was 
merry with them, — the proud Philip 1 — had he not begun 
to discover the “precious jewel” in the “ugly and 
venomous ” Adversity ! 

The mechanic, though a gay fellow on the whole, was 
not without some of that discontent of his station which 
is common with his class ; he vented it, however, not in 
murmurs, but in jests. He was satirical on the carriages 
and the horsemen that passed ; and lolling on the grass, 
ridiculed his betters at his ease 

“ Hush ! ” said his wife, suddenly ; “ here comes 
Madame de Merville ; ” and rising as she spoke, she made 
a respectful inclination of her head towards an open car- 
riage that was passing very slowly towards the town. 

“ Madame de Merville ! ” repeated the husband, rising 
also, and lifting his cap from his head. “ Ah ! I have 
nothing to say against her!” 

Morton looked instinctively towards the carriage, and 
saw a fair countenance turned graciously to answer the 
/ silent salutations of the mechanic and his wife — a coun- 
tenance that had long haunted his dreams, though of late 
it had faded away beneath harsher thoughts — the coun- 
tenance of the stranger whom he had seen at the bureau 
of Gawtrey, when that worthy personage had borne a 
more mellifluous name. He started and changed color : 
the lady herself now seemed suddenly to recognise him ; 
for their eyes met, and she bent forward eagerly. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


377 


She pulled the check-string — the carriage halted — she 
beckoned to the mechanic’s wife, who went up to the 
road-side. 

“ I worked once for that lady,” said the man, with a 
tone of feeling ; “ and when my wife fell ill last winter 
she paid the doctors. Ah, she is an angel of charity and 
kindness ! ” 

Morton scarcely heard this eulogium, for he observed, 
by something eager and inquisitive in the face of Madame 
de Merville, and by the sudden manner in which the me- 
chanic’s helpmate turned her head to the spot on which 
he stood, that he was the object of their conversation. 
Once more he became suddenly aware of his ragged dress, 
and with a natural shame — a fear that charity might be 
extended to him from her — he muttered an abrupt fare- 
well to the operative, and, without another glance at the 
carriage, walked away. 

Before he had got many paces, the wife however came 
up to him, breathless. “Madame de Merville would 
speak to you, sir I ” she said, with more respect than she 
had hitherto thrown into her manner. Philip paused an 
instant, and again strode on. 

“It must be some mistake,” he said, hurriedly: “I 
have no right to expect such an honor.” _ 

He struck across the road, gained the opposite side,' 
and had vanished from Madame de Merville’s eyes, before 
the woman regained the carriage. But still that calm, 
pale, and somewhat melancholy face, presented itself be- 
fore him ; and as h§ walked again through the town, sweet 
32 * 


378 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


and gentle fancies crowded confusedly on his heart. On 
that soft summer day, memorable for so many silent but 
mighty events in that inner life which prepares the catas- 
trophes of the outer one ; as in the region, of which 
Yirgil has sung, the images of men to be born hereafter 
repose or glide — on that soft summer day, he felt he had 
reached the age when Youth begins to clothe in some 
human shape its first vague ideal of desire and love. 

In such thoughts, and still wandering, the day wore 
away, till he found himself in one of the lanes that sur- 
round that glittering Microcosm of the vices, the frivoli- 
ties, the hollow show, and the real beggary of the gay 
City — the gardens and the galleries of the Palais Royal. 
Surprised at the lateness of the hour, it was then on 'the 
stroke of seven, he was about to return homewards, when 
the loud voice of Gawtrey sounded behind, and that per- 
sonage, tapping him on the back, said, — 

“ Hollo, my young friend, well met ! This will be a 
night of trial to you. Empty stomachs produce weak 
nerves. Come along ! you must dine with me. A good 
dinner and a bottle of old wine — come ! nonsense, I say 
you shall come ! Vive lajoie! ” 

While speaking, he had linked his arm in Morton’s, 
and hurried him on several paces in spite of his struggles ; 
but just as the words Vive la joie left his lips, he stood 
still and mute, as if a thunder-bolt had fallen at his feet ; 
and Morton felt that heavy arm shiver and tremble like a 
leaf. He looked up, and just at the entrance of that 
part of the Palais Royal in which are situated the restau * 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


379 


rants of Yerey and Y efour, lie saw two men standing but 
a few paces before them, and gazing full on Gawtrey and 
himself. 

“ It is my evil genius,” muttered Gawtrey, grinding his 
teeth. 

“And mine ! ” said Morton. 

The younger of the two men thus apostrophised made . 
a step towards Philip, when his companion drew him 

back and whispered, — “What are you about Do you 

know that young man ? ” 

“ He is my cousin ; Philip Beaufort's natural son ! ” 
“Is he ? then discard him for ever. He is with the 
most dangerous knave in Europe ! ” 

As Lord Lilburne — for it was he — thus whispered his 
nephew, Gawtrey strode up to him ; and, glaring full in 
his face, said in a deep and hollow tone, — “ There is a 
hell, my lord, — I go to drink to our meeting ! ” Thus 
saying, he took off his hat with a ceremonious mockery 
and disappeared within the adjoining restaurant, kept by 
Yefour. 

“A hell ! ” said Lilburne, with his frigid smile ; “ the 
rogue’s head runs upon g ambling -houses / ” 

“And I have suffered Philip again to escape me,” said 
Arthur, in self-reproach : for while Gawtrey had addressed 
Lord Lilburne, Morton had plunged back amidst the 
labyrinth of alleys. “ How, have I kept my oath ? ” 

“ Come ! your guests must have arrived by this time.. 
As for that wretched young man, depend upon it that he 
is corrupted body and soul.” 


380 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


“But he is my own cousin.” 

“Pooh! there is no relationship in natural children: 
besides, he will find you out fast enough. Ragged claimants 
are not long too proud to beg.” 

“ You speak in earnest ? ” said Arthur, irresolutely. 

“Ay ! trust my experience of the world — Allons ! ” 

And in a cabinet of the very restaurant, adjoining that 
in which the solitary Gawtrey gorged his conscience, Lil- 
burne, Arthur, and their gay friends, soon forgetful of all 
but the roses of the moment, bathed their airy spirits in 
the dews of the mirthful wine. Oh, extremes of life ! Oh. 
Night! Oh, Morning! 


CHAPTER IX. 

Meantime a moving scene was open laid, 

That lazar-house.” 

Thomson : Castle of Indolence. 

It was near midnight. At the mouth of the lane in 
which Gawtrey resided there stood four men. Not far 
distant, in the broad street at angles with the lane, were 
heard the wheels of carriages and the sound of music. A 
lady, fair in form, tender of heart, stainless in repute, was 
receiving her friends ! 

“ Monsieur Eavart,” said one of the men to the smallest 
of the four ; “ you understand the conditions — 20,00(1 
francs and a free pardon ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


3f • 


u Nothing more reasonable — it is understood. Still 1 
confess that I should like to have my men close at hand. 
I am not given to fear ; but this is a dangerous experi- 
ment.” 

“You knew the danger beforehand, and subscribed to 
it ; you must enter alone with me, or not at all. Mark 
you, the men are sworn to murder him who betrays them 
Not for twenty times 20,000 francs would I have them 
know me as the informer. My life were not worth a day’s 
purchase. Now, if you feel secure in your disguise, all is 
safe. Y ou will have seen them at their work — you will 
recognise their persons — you can depose against them at 
the trial — I shall have time to quit France.” 

“Well, well 1 as you please.” 

“ Mind, you must wait in the vault with them till they 
separate. We have so planted your men that whatever 
street each of the gang takes in going home, he can be 
seized quietly and at once The bravest and craftiest of 
all, who, though he has but just joined, is already their 
captain ; — him, the man I told you of, who lives in the 
house, you must take after his return, in his bed. It is 
the sixth story to the right, remember : here is the key to 
his door. He is a giant in strength, and will never be 
taken alive if up and armed.'” 

“Ah, I comprehend ! — Gilbert 1 ” (and Favart turned 
lo one of his companions who had not yet spoken) “take 
thfee men besides yourself, according to the directions I 
gave you, — the porter will admit you, that’s arranged. 
Make no noise. If I don’t return by four o’clock, don’t 


382 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


wait for me, but proceed at once. Look well to your 
primings. Take him alive, if possible — at the worst, 
dead. And now — mon ami — lead on!” 

The traitor nodded, and walked slowly down the street. 
Favart, pausing, whispered hastily to the man whom he 
had called Gilbert, — 

“ Follow me close — get to the door of the cellar — 
place eight men within hearing of my whistle — recollect 
the pick-locks, the axes. If you hear the whistle, break 
in ; if not, I’m safe, and the first orders to seize the cap- 
tain in his room stand good.” 

So saying, Favart strode after his guide. The door 
of a large, but ill-favored-looking house, stood ajar — 
they entered — passed unmolested through a court-yard 
— descended some stairs; the guide unlocked the door 
of a cellar, and took a dark lantern from under hi^. cloak. 
As he drew up the slide, the dim light gleamed on barrels 
and wine-casks, which appeared to fill up the space. Roll- 
ing aside one of these, the guide lifted a trap-door, and 
lowered his lantern. “ Enter,” said he ; and the two men 
disappeared. 

* * * * * . * 
****** 
****** 

The coiners were at their work. A man, seated on a 
stool before a desk, was entering accounts in a large 
book. That man was William Gawtrey. While, with the 
rapid precision of honest mechanics, — the machinery of 
the Dark Trade, went on in its several departments 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


383 


Apart — alone — at the foot of a long table, sat Philip 
Morton. The truth had exceeded his darkest suspicions. 
He had consented to take the oath not to divulge what 
was to be given to his survey ; and, when led into that 
vault, the bandage was taken from his eyes, it was some 
minutes before he could fully comprehend the desperate 
and criminal occupations of the wild forms amidst which 
towered the burly stature of his benefactor. As the truth 
slowly grew upon him, he shrunk from the side of Gaw- 
trey ; but, deep compassion for his friend’s degradation 
swallowing up the horror of the trade, he flung himself 
on one of the rude seats, and felt that the bond between 
them was indeed broken, and that the next morning he 
should be again alone in the w r orld. Still, as the obscene 
jests, the fearful oaths, that from time to time rang 
through the vault, came on his ear, he cast his haughty 
eye in such disdain over the groups, that, Gawtrey ob- 
serving him, trembled for his safety ; and nothing but 
Philip’s sense of his own impotence, and the brave, not 
timorous, desire not to perish by such hands, kept silent 
the fiery denunciations of a nature, still proud and honest, 
that quivered on his lips. All present were armed with 
pistols and cutlasses except Morton, who suffered the 
weapons presented to him to lie unheeded on the table. 

“ Courage , mes amis!” said Gawtrey, closing his 
book, — “ Courage! — a few months more, and we shall 
have made enough to retire upon, and enjoy ourselves for 
the rest of the days. Where is Birnie ? ” 

“ Did he not tell you ?” said one of the artisans, look- 


384 


NIGHT AN I MORNING. 


ing np. “ He has found out the cleverest hand in France, 

. — the very fellow who helped Bouchard in all his five- 
franc pieces. He has promised to bring him to-night.” 

“Ay, I remember,” returned Gawtrey, “ he told me this 
morning, — he is a famous decoy ! ” 

“ I think so, indeed ! ” quoth a coiner ; “ for he caught 
you, the best head to our hands that ever les industriels 
were blessed with — sacre fichtre ! ” 

“ Flatterer ! ” said Gawtrey, coming from the desk to 
the table, and pouring out wine from one of the bottles 
into a huge flagon — “To your healths!” 

Here the door slided back, and Birnie glided in. 

“Where is your booty, mon brave?” said Gawtrey. 
“We only coin money; you coin men, stamp with your 
own seal, and send them current to the devil 1 ” 

The coiners, who liked Birnie’s ability (for the ci-de- 
vant engraver was of admirable skill in their craft), but 
who hated his joyless manners, laughed at this taunt, 
which Birnie did not seem to heed, except by a malignant 
gleam of his dead eye. 

“If you mean the celebrated coiner, Jacques Girau- 
mont, he waits without. You know our rules — I cannot 
admit him without leave.” 

“ Bon ! we give it, — eh, messieurs ? ” said Gawtrey. 

“Ay — ay,” cried several voices. “ He knows the oath, 
and will hear the penalty.” 

“ Yes, he knows the oath,” replied Birnie, and glided 
back. 

In a moment more he returned with a small man in a 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 385 

mechanic's blouse. The new-comer wore the republican 
beard and moustache, — of a sandy grey — his hair was 
the same color ; and a black patch over one eye increased 
the ill-favored appearance of his features. 

" Diable ! Monsieur Giraumont ! but you are more like 
Vulcan than Adonis!” said Gawtrey. 

“ I don’t know anything about Vulcan, but I know how 
to make five-franc pieces,” said Monsieur Giraumont, 
doggedly. 

“Are you poor ? ” 

“As a charch-mouse ! The only thing belonging to a 
church, since the Bourbons came back, that is poor 1 ” 

At this sally, the coiners who had gathered round the 
table, uttered the shout with which, in all circumstances, 
Frenchmen receive a bon mot. 

“ Humph l” said Gawtrey. “Who responds, with his 
own life, for your fidelity ? ” 

“ I,” said Birnie. 

“Administer the oath to him.” 

Suddenly four men advanced, seized the visitor, and 
bore him from the vault into another one within. After a 
few moments they returned. 

“He has taken the oath and heard the penalty.” 

“ Death to yourself, your wife, your son, and your 
grandson, if you betray us ! ” 

“ I have neither son nor grandson ; as for my wife, 
Monsieur le Capitane, you offer a bribe instead of a threat 
when you talk of her death ! ” 

1 Sacre! but you will be an addition to our circle, mon 
I. — 33 z 


386 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


brave! 11 said Gawtrey, laughing ; while again the grim 
circle shouted applause. 

“ But I suppose you care for your own life ? 11 

“ Otherwise I should have preferred starving to coming 
here,” answered the laconic neophyte. 

"I have done with you. Your health!” 

On this the coiners gathered round Monsieur Girau- 
mont, shook him by the hand, and commenced many 
questions with a view to ascertain his skill. 

“ Show me your coinage first ; I see you use both the 
die and the furnace. Hem ! this piece is not bad — you 
have struck it from an iron die ? — right — it makes the 
impression sharper than plaster of Paris. But you take 
the poorest and the most dangerous part of the trade in 
taking the Home Market. I can put you in a way to 
make ten times as much — and with safety ! Look at 
this ! ” — and Monsieur Giraumont took a forged Spanish 
dollar from his pocket, so skilfully manufactured that the 
connoisseurs were lost in admiration — “You may pass 
thousands of these all over Europe, except France, and 
who is ever to detect you ? But it will require better 
machinery than you have here.” 

Thus conversing, Monsieur Giraumont did not perceive 
that Mr. Gawtrey had been examining him very curiously 
and minutely. But Birnie had noted their chief’s atten- 
tion, and once attempted to join his new ally, when Gaw- 
trey laid his hand on his shoulder, and stopped him. 

“ Do not speak to your friend till I bid you, or r 

he stopped short, and touched his pistols. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 387 

Birnie grew a shade more pale, but replied with his 
usual sneer, — { 

“ Suspicious ! — well, so much the better ! ” and seating 
himself carelessly at the table, lighted his pipe. 

“And now, Monsieur Giraumont,” said Gawtrey, as he 
took the head of the table, “ come to my right hand. A 
half-holiday in your honor. Clear these infernal instru- 
ments ; and more wine, mes amis ! ” 

The party arranged themselves at the table. Among 
the desperate there is almost invariably a tendency to 
mirth. A solitary ruffian, indeed, is moody, but a gang 
of ruffians are jovial. The coiners talked and laughed 
loud. Mr. Birnie, from his dogged silence, seemed apart 
from the rest, though in the centre. For in a noisy circle, 
a silent tongue builds a wall round its owner. But that 
respectable personage kept his furtive watch upon Girau- 
mont and Gawtrey, who appeared talking together, very 
amicably. The younger novice of that night, equally 
silent, seated towards the bottom of the table, was not 
less watchful than Birnie. An uneasy, undefinable fore- 
boding had come over him since the entrance of Monsieur 
Giraumont; this had been increased by the manner of 
Mr. Gawtrey. His faculty of observation, which was very 
acute, had detected something false in the chief’s bland 
ness to their guest — something dangerous in the glitter- 
ing eye that Gawtrey ever, as he spoke co Giraumont, 
bent on that person’s lips as he listened to his reply. 
For, whenever William Gawtrey suspected a man, he 
watched not his eyes but his lips. 


388 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Waked from his scornful reverie, a strange spell 
chained Morton’s attention to the chief and the guest, 
and he bent forward, with parted mouth and straining 
ear, to catch their conversation. 

“ It seems to me a little strange,” said Mr. Gawtrey, 
raising his voice so as to be heard by the party, “that a 
coiner so dexterous as Monsieur Giraumont, should not 
be known to any of us except our friend Birnie.” 

“Not at all,” replied Giraumont: “I worked only 
with Bouchard and two others, since sent to the galleys. 
We were but a small fraternity — everything has its 
commencement.” 

“ C'est juste: buvez done, cher ami! ” * 

The wine circulated : Gawtrey began again. 

“You have had a bad accident, seemingly, Monsieur 
Giraumont, — how did you lose your eye?” 

“In a scuffle with the gens d'armes the night Bouchard 
was taken and I escaped : such misfortunes are on the 
cards.” 

“C’est juste: buvez done, Monsieur Giraumont!” f 

Again there was a pause, and again Gawtrey’s deep 
voice was heard. 

“You wear a wig, I think, Monsieur Giraumont? — to 
judge by your eye-lashes, your own hair has been a hand- 
some color.” 

“We seek disguise not beauty, my host! and the 
police have sharp eyes.” 


* That’s right: drink, then, dear friend, 
f That’s right : drink, then. Monsieur Giraumont. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


389 


“ G^est juste, buvez done — vieux Renard! * — when did 
we two meet last ? ” 

“Never, that I know of I” 

“ Ge rdest pas vrai! buvez done, MONSIEUR 
FAVART/”f 

At the sound of that name the company started in dis • 
may and confusion, and the police officer, forgetting him- 
self for the moment, sprung from his seat, and put his 
right hand into his blouse. 

“Ho, there! — treason!” cried Gawtrey, in a voice 
of thunder; and he caught the unhappy man by the 
throat. 

It was the work of a moment. Morton, where he 
sat, beheld a struggle — he heard a death-cry . He saw 
the huge form of the master-coiner rising above all the 
rest, as cutlasses gleamed and eyes sparkled round. He 
saw the quivering and powerless frame of the unhappy 
guest raised aloft in those mighty arms, and presently it 
was hurled along the table — bottles crashing — the 
board shaking beneath its weight — and lay before the 
very eyes of Morton, a distorted and lifeless mass. At 
the same instant, Gawtrey sprang upon the table, his 
black frown singling out from the group the ashen, 
cadaverous face of the shrinking tractor. Birnie had 
darted from the table, — he was half-way towards the 
sliding door — his face, turned over his shoulder, met the 
eyes of the chief. 


* That’s right : drink, then, old fox. 
f That’s not true: drink, then. Monsieur Favart. 

33 * 


390 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Devil ! ” shouted Gawtrey, id his terrible voice, which 
the echoes of the vault gave back from side to side — “ did 
I not give thee up my soul that thou mightest not com- 
pass my death ? Hark ye ! thus die my slavery and all 
our secrets ! ” The explosion of his pistol half swallowed 
up the last word, and with a single groan the traitor fell 
on the floor, pierced through the brain, — then there was 
a dead and grim hush as the smoke rolled slbwly along 
the roof of the dreary vault. 

Morton sank back on his seat, and covered his face 
with his hands. The last seal on the fate of The Man 
of Crime was set ; the last wave in the terrible and 
mysterious tide of his destiny had dashed on his soul to 
the shore whence there' is no return. Yain, now and 
henceforth, the humor, the sentiment, the kindly impulse, 
the social instincts which had invested that stalwart shape 
with dangerous fascination, which had implied the hope 
of ultimate repentance, of redemption even in this world. 
The Hour and the Circumstance had seized their prey ; 
and the self-defence, which a lawless career rendered a 
necessity, left the eternal dye of blood upon his doom ! 

“ Friends, I have saved you,” said Gawtrey, slowly 
gazing on the corpse of his second victim, while he re- 
turned the pistol to his belt : “ I have not quailed before 
this man’s eye (and he spurned the clay of the officer as 
he spoke with a revengeful scorn) without treasuring up 
its aspect in my heart of hearts. I knew him when he 
entered — knew him through his disguise — yet faith, it 
was a clever one 1 Turn up his face and gaze on him 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


391 


dow ; he will never terrify us again, unless there be truth 
in ghosts ! ” 

Murmuring and tremulous the coiners scrambled on the 
;tble and examined the dead man. From this task Gaw- 
trey interrupted them, for his quick eye detected, with the 
pistols under the policeman’s blouse , a whistle of metal 
of curious construction, and he conjectured at once that 
danger was yet at hand. 

“ I have saved you, I say, but only for the hour. This 
deed cannot sleep — see, he had help within call. The 
police know where to look for their comrade — we are 
dispersed. Each for himself. Quick, divide the spoils 1 
Sauve qui peut /” 

Then Morton heard where he sat, his hands still 
clasped before his face, a confused hubbub of voices, the 
jingle of rnuiey, the scrambling of led, «ue peaking of 

doors, — all was silent ! 

A strong grasp drew his hands from his eyes. 

“Your first scene of life against life,” said Gawtrey’s 
voice, which seemed fearfully changed to the ear that 
heard it. “ Bah I whq,t would you think of a battle ? 
Come to our eyrie : the carcasses are gone. 

Morton looked fearfully round the vault. He and 
Gawtrey were alone. His eyes sought the places where 
the dead had lain — they were removed — no vestige of 
the deeds, not even a drop of blood. 

“ Come, take up your cutlass, come 1 ” repeated the 
voice of the chief, as with his dim lantern, now the sole 


392 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


light of the vault, he stood in the shadow of the door- 
way. 

Morton rose, took up the weapon mechanically, and 
followed that terrible guide, mute and unconscious, as a 
Soul follows a Dream through the House of Sleep ! 


C9D OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 


NIGHT AND MORNING 

/ 


VOL. II. 



NIGHT AND MORNING. 


BOOK THIRD. 

CONTINUED. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Sleep no more.” — Macbeth 

After winding through gloomy and labyrinthine pas- 
sages, which conducted to a different range of cellars 
from those entered by the unfortunate Favart, Gawtrey 
emerged at the foot of a flight of stairs, which, dark, 
narrow, and in many places broken, had been probably 
appropriated to servants of the house in its days of palm- 
ier glory. By these steps the pair regained their attic. 
Gawtrey placed the lantern on the table, and seated him- 
self in silence. Morton, who had recovered his self-pos- 
session and formed his resolution, gazed on him for some 
moments equally taciturn ; at length he spoke, — 

“ Gawtrey ! ” 

“ I bade you not call me by that name,” said the coin- 
er ; for we need scarcely say that in his new trade he had 
assumed a new appellation. 

] * 


( 5 ) 


6 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“It is the least guilty one by which I have known 
you,” returned Morton, firmly. “ It is for the last time 
I call you by it ! I demanded to see by what means one 
to whom I had entrusted my fate supported himself. I 
have seen” continued the young man, still firmly, but 
with a livid cheek and lip, “and the tie between us is rent 
for ever. Interrupt me not I it is not for me to blame 
you. I have eaten of your bread and drank of your cup. 
Confiding in you too blindly, and believing that you were 
at least free from those dark and terrible crimes for which 
there is no expiation, at least in this life — my conscience 
seared by distress, my very soul made dormant by despair, 
I surrendered myself to one leading a career equivocal, 
suspicious, dishonorable perhaps, but still not, as I be- 
lieved, of atrocity and bloodshed. I wake at the brink 
of the abyss — my mother’s hand beckons to me from the 
grave ; I think I hear her voice while I addiess you — I 
recede while it is yet time — we part, and for ever ! ” 

Gawtrey, whose stormy passion was still deep upon his 
soul, had listened hitherto in sullen and dogged silence, 
with a gloomy frown on his knitted brow ; he now rose 
with an oath, — 

“Part! that I may let loose on the world a new 
traitor ! Part ! when you have seen me fresh from an 
act that, once whispered, gives me to the guillotine ! 
Part — never ! at least alive 1 ” 

“ I have said it,” said Morton, folding his arms calmly ; 
“ I say it to your face, though I might part from you in 
secret. Frown not on me, man of blood ! I am fearless 
as yourself! In another minute, I am gone.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Ah! is it so ?” said Gawtrey; and glancing round 
the room, which contained two doors, the one, concealed 
by the draperies of a bed, communicating with the stairs 
by which they had entered, the other with the landing of 
the principal and common flight : he turned to the former 
within his reach, which he locked, and put the key into 
his pocket, and then, throwing across the latter a heavy 
swing bar, which fell into its socket with a harsh noise, 
— before the threshold he placed his vast bulk, and burst 
into his loud, fierce laugh, — “ Ho ! ho ! slave and fool, 
once mine, you were mine body and soul for ever ! ” 

“ Tempter, I defy you ! stand back ! ” And, firm and 
dauntless, Morton laid his hand on the giant’s vest. 

Gawtrey seemed more astonished than enraged. He 
looked hard at his daring associate, on whose lip the 
down was yet scarcely dark. 

“Boy,” said he, “off! do not rouse the devil in me 
again ! I could crush you with a hug.” 

“ My soul supports my body, and I am armed,” said 
Morton, laying hand on his cutlass. “ But you dare not 
harm me, nor I you ; blood-stained as you are, you gave 
me shelter and bread ; but accuse me not that I will save 
my soul while it is yet time ! — Shall my mother have 
blessed me in vain upon her death-bed ? ” 

Gawtrey drew back, and Morton, by a sudden impulse, 
grasped his hand. 

“ Oh ! hear me — hear me ! ” he cried, with great emo- 
tion.^ “ Abandon this horrible career ; you have been 
decoyed and betrayed to it by one who can deceive or 


8 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


terrify you no more ! Abandon it, and I will never desert 
you. For her sake — for your Fanny’s sake — pause, 
like me, before the gulf swallow us. Let us fly ! — far 
to the New World — to any land where our thews and 
sinews, our stout hands and hearts, can find an honest 
mart. Men, desperate as we are, have yet risen by 
honest means. Take her, your orphan, with us. We 
will work for her, both of us. Gawtrey ! hear me. It is 
not my voice that speaks to you — it is your good angel’s 1” 

Gawtrey fell back against the wall, and his chest heaved. 

“Morton,” he said, with choked and tremulous ac- 
cents, “ go now ; leave me to my fate ! I have sinned 
against you — shamefully sinned. It seemed to me so 
sweet to have a friend ; — in your youth and character 
of mind there was so much about which the tough strings 
of my heart wound themselves, that I could not bear to 
lose you — to suffer you to know me for what I was. I 
blinded — I deceived you as to my past deeds ; that was 
base in me : but I swore to my own heart to keep you 
•unexposed to every danger, and free from every vice that 
darkened my own path. I kept that oath till this night, 
when, seeing that you began to recoil from me, and 
dreading that you should desert me, I thought to bind 
you to me for ever by implicating you in this fellowship 
of crime. I am punished, and justly. Go, I repeat — 
leave me to the fate that strides nearer and nearer to me 
day by day. You are a boy still — I am no longer 
young. Habit is a second nature. Still — still I could 
repent — I could begin life again! Bu* repose! — to 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


9 


look back — to remember — to be haunted night and day 
with deeds that shall meet me bodily and face to face on 
the last day ” 

“Add not to the spectres! Come — fly this night — 
this hour ! ” 

Gawtrey paused, irresolute and wavering, when at that 
• moment he heard steps on the stairs below. He started 
as starts the boar caught in his lair — and listened, pale 
and breathless. 

“Hush! — they are on us! — they come!” as he 
whispered, the key from without turned in the wards — 
the door shook. “Soft ! — the bar preserves us both — 
this way.” And the coiner crept to the door of the 
private stairs. He unlocked and opened it cautiously. 
A man sprang through the aperture — 

“ Yield ! — you are my prisoner ! ” 

“ Never ! ” cried Gawtrey, hurling back the intruder, 
and clapping-to the door, though other and stout men 
were pressing against it with all their power. 

“ Ho ! ho ! Who shall open the tiger’s cage ? ” 

At both doors now were heard the sounds of voices. 
“Open in the king’s name, or expect no mercy ! ” 

“ Hist ! ” said Gawtrey. “ One way yet — the window 
— the rope.” 

Morton opened the casement — Gawtrey uncoiled the 
rope. The dawn was breaking ; it was light in the streets, 
but all seemed quiet without. The doors reeled and shook 
beneath the pressure of the pursuers. Gawtrey flung the 
rope across the street to the opposite parapet ; after two 


10 


night and morning. 


or three efforts, the grappling-hook caught firm hold — 
the perilous path was made. 

“ On ! — quick ! — loiter not ! ” whispered Gawtrey : 
“you are active — it seems more dangerous than it is — 
cling with both hands — shut your eyes. When on the 
other side — you see the window of Birnie’s room, — enter 
it — descend the stairs — let yourself out, and you are safe.” 

“ Go first ; ” said Morton, in the same tone : “ I will not 
leave you now : you will be longer getting across than I 
shall. I will keep guard till you are over.” 

“Hark! hark! — are you mad? You keep guard! 
What is your strength to mine ? Twenty men shall not 
move that door, while my weight is against it. Quick, or 
you destroy us both ! Besides, you will hold the rope for 
me, it may not be strong enough for my bulk of itself. 
Stay! — stay one moment. If you escape, and I fall — 
Fanny — my father, he will take care of her, — you re- 
member — thanks ! Forgive me all ! Go ; that’s right ! ” 
With a firm pulse, Morton threw himself on that dread- 
ful bridge ; it swung and crackled at his weight. Shifting 
his grasp rapidly — holding his breath — with set teeth — 
with closed eyes — he moved on — he gained the parapet 
— he stood safe on the opposite side. And now, straining 
his eyes across, he saw through the open casement into 
the chamber he had just quitted. Gawtrey was still stand- 
ing against the door to the prijjcipal staircase, for that 
of the two was the weaker and the more assailed. Pres- 
ently the explosion of a firearm was heard ; they had shot 
hrough the panel. Gawtrey seemed wounded, for he 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


11 


staggered forward, and uttered a fierce cry ; a moment 
more, and he gained the window — he seized the rope — 
he hung over the tremendous depth ! Morton knelt by the 
parapet, holding the grappling-hook in its place, with 
convulsive grasp, and fixing his eyes, bloodshot with fear 
and suspense, on the huge bulk that clung for life to that 
slender cord ! 

“ Le voild! le voildf ” cried a voice from the opposite 
side. Morton raised his gaze from Gawtrey ; the case- 
ment was darkened by the forms of the pursuers — they 
had burst into the room — an officer sprung upon the par- 
apet, and Gawtrey, now aware of his danger, opened his 
eyes, and, as he moved on, glared upon the foe. The 
policeman deliberately raised his pistol — Gawtrey arrested 
himself — from a wound in his side the blood trickled 
slowly and darkly down, drop by drop, upon the stones 
below; even the officers of law shuddered as they eyed 
him — his hair bristling — his cheek white — his lips drawn 
convulsively from his teeth, and his eye glaring from be- 
neath the frown of agony and menace in which yet spoke 
the indomitable power and fierceness of the man. His 
look, so fixed — so intense — so stern, awed the policeman ; 
his hand trembled as he fired, and the ball struck the par- 
apet an inch below the spot where Morton knelt. An in- 
distinct, wild, gurgling sound — half-laugh, half-yell — of 
scorn and glee, broke from Gawtrey’s lips. He swung 
himself on — near — near — nearer — a yard from the par- 
apet. 

“You are saved!” cried Morton; when at that mo- 
2a 


12 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


ment a volley burst from the fatal casement — 'he smoke 
relied over both the fugitives — a groan, or rather howl, 
of rage, and despair, and agony, appalled even the hardi- 
est on whose ear it came. Morton sprung to his feet and 
looked below. He saw on the rugged stones, far down, 
a dark, formless, motionless mass — the strong man of 
passion and levity — the giant who had played with life 
and soul, as an infant with the baubles that it prizes and 
breaks — was what the Caesar and the leper alike are, 
when the clay is without God’s breath, — what glory, ge- 
nius, power, and beauty, would be for ever and for ever, 
if there were no God I 

“ There is another 1 ” cried the voice of one of the pur- 
suers. “ Fire ! ” 

“ Poor Gawtrey ! ” muttered Philip, “ I will fulfil your 
last wish ; ” and scarcely conscious of the bullet that whis- 
tled by him, he disappeared behind the parapet. 


CHAPTER XI 

“ Gently moved 

By the soft wind of whispering silks. ” — Decker 

Tiie reader may remember that while Monsieur Favart 
and Mr. Birnie were holding commune in the lane, the 
sounds of festivity were heard from a house in the adjoin- 
ing street To that house we are now summoned. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 

At Paris, the gaieties of balls, or soirees , are, I believe, 
very rare in that period of the year in which they are 
most frequent in London. The entertainment now given 
was in honor of a christening ; the lady who gave it, 
a relation of the new-born. 

Madame de Merville was a young widow ; even before 
her marriage she had been distinguished in literature ; she 
had written poems of more than common excellence ; and 
being handsome, of good family, and large fortune, her 
talents made her an object of more interest than they 
might otherwise have done. Her poetry showed great 
sensibility and tenderness. If poetry be any index to the 
heart, you would have thought her one to love truly and 
deeply. Nevertheless, since she married — as girls in 
France do — not to please herself, but her parents, she 
made a mariage de convenance. Monsieur de Merville 
was a sober, sensible man, past middle age. Not being 
fond of poetry, and by no means coveting a professional 
author for his wife, he had during their union, which 
lasted four years, discouraged his wife’s liaison with 
Apollo. But her mind, active and ardent, did not the 
less prey upon itself. At the age of four-and-twenty she 
became a widow, with an income large even in England 
for a single woman, and at Paris constituting no ordinary 
fortune. Madame de Merville, however, though a person 
of elegant taste, was neither ostentatious nor selfish ; she 
had no children, and she lived quietly in apartments, 
Handsome indeed, but not more than adequate to the 
email establishment which — where, as on the Continent, 

IT. —2 


14 


NJGHT AND MORNING. 


thn costly convenience of an entire house is not usually 
incurred — sufficed for her retinue. She devoted at least 
half her income, which was entirely at her own disposal, 
partly to the aid of her own relations, who were not rich, 
and partly to the encouragement of the literature she 
cultivated. Although she shrunk from the ordeal of 
publication, her poems and sketches of romance were read 
to her own friends, and possessed an eloquence seldom 
accompanied with so much modesty. Thus, her reputa- 
tion, though not blown about the winds, was high in her 
own circle, and her position in fashion and in fortune made 
her looked up to by her relations as the head of her family : 
they regarded her as femme superieure, and her advice 
with them was equivalent to a command. Eugenie de 
Merville was a strange mixture of qualities at once 
feminine and masculine. On the one hand, she had a 
strong will, independent views, some contempt for the 
world, and followed her own inclinations without servility 
to the opinion of others ; on the other hand, she was 
susceptible, romantic, of a sweet, affectionate, kind disposi- 
tion. Her visit to M. Love, however indiscreet, was not 
less in accordance with her character than her charity 
to the mechanic’s wife ; masculine and careless where an 
eccentric thing was to be done — curiosity satisfied, or 
some object in female diplomacy achieved — womanly, 
delicate, and gentle, the instant her benevolence was 
appealed to or her heart touched. She had now been 
three years a widow, and was consequently at the age 
&f twenty -seven. Despite the tenderness of her poetrj 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 15 

and her character, her reputation was unblemished. She 
had never been in love. People who are much occupied 
do not fall in love easily ; besides, Madame de Merville 
was refining, exacting, and wished to find heroes where 
she only met handsome dandies or ugly authors. More 
over, Eugenie was both a vain and a proud person — vain 
of her celebrity, and proud of her birth. She was one, 
whose goodness of heart made her always active in 
promoting the happiness of others. She was not only 
generous and charitable, but willing to serve people by 
good offices as well as money. Everybody loved 
her. The new-born infant, to whose addition to the 
Christian community the fete of this night was dedicated, 
was the pledge Of an union which Madame de Merville 
had managed to effect between two young persons, first- 
cousins to each other, and related to herself. There had 
been scruples of parents to remove — money matters to 
adjust — Eugenie had smoothed all. The husband and 
wife, still lovers, looked up to her as the author, under 
Heaven, of their happiness. 

The gala of that night had been, therefore, of a nature 
more than usually pleasurable, and the mirth did not sound 
hollow, but rang from the heart. Yet, as Eugenie from 
time to time contemplated the young couple, whose eyes 
ever sought each other — so fair, so tender, and so joyous 
as they seemed — a melancholy shadow darkened her brow, 
and she sighed involuntarily. Once the young wife, Mad- 
ame d’Anville, approaching her timidly, said, — 

“ Ah ! my sweet cousin, when shall we see you as happy 


I 

16 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

as cursives? There is such happiness, ’’ she added, in- 
nocently and with a blush, “in being a mother! — that 
little life all one’s own — it is something to think of every 
hour ! ” 

“ Perhaps,” said Eugenie, smiling, and seeking to turn 
the conversation from a subject that touched too nearly 
rpon feelings and thoughts her pride did not wish to re- 
real, — “ perhaps, it is you then who have made our cousin, 
poor Monsieur de Vaudemont, so determined to marry ? 
Pray, be more cautious with him. How difficult I have 
found it to prevent his bringing into our family some one 
to make us all ridiculous ! ” 

“ True,” said Madame d’Anville, laughing. “ But then, 
the Vicomte is so poor and in debt. He would fall in 
love, not with the demoiselle but the dower. A propos 
of that, how cleverly you took advantage of his boastful 
confession to break off his liaisons with that bureau de 
mariage. ” 

“ Yes ; I congratulate myself on that manoeuvre. Un- 
pleasant as it was to go to such a place (for, of course, I 
could not send for Monsieur Love here), it would have 
been still more unpleasant to have received such a Madame 
de Yaudemont as our cousin would have presented to us. 
Only think, — he was the rival of an epicier ! I heard 
that there was some curious denouement to the farce of 
that establishment; but I could never get from Yaudemont 
the particulars. He was ashamed of them, I fancy.” 

“ What droll professions there are in Paris ! ” said 
Madame d’Anville : “ as if people could not marry with- 


NIGHT AND MORN.ING. 


U 


out going to an office for a spouse as we go for a servant ! 
And so the establishment is broken up ? And you never 
again saw that dark, wild-looking boy who so struck your 
fancy, that you have taken him as the original for the 
Murillo sketch of the youth in that charming tale you 
read to us the other evening. Ah ! cousin, I think you 
were a little taken with him ; the bureau de mariage had 
its allurements for you as well for our poor cousin ! ” The 
young mother said this laughingly and carelessly 

“ Pooh ! ” returned Madame de Merville, laughing also ; 
but a slight blush broke over her natural paleness. “ But 
dpropos of the Yicomte. You know how cruelly he has 
behaved to that poor boy of his by his English wife — 
never seen him since he was an infant — kept him at some 
school in England ; and all because his vanity does not 
like the world to know that he has a son of nineteen ! 
Well, I have induced him to recall this poor youth.” 

“ Indeed 1 and how ? ” 

“Why,” said Eugenie, with a smile, “he wanted a 
loan, poor man, and I could therefore impose conditions 
by way of interest. But I also managed to conciliate 
him to the proposition, by representing that, if the young 
man were good-looking, he might, himself, with our con- 
nexions, ^&c., form an advantageous marriage; and that 
in such a case, if the father treated him now justly and 
kindly, he would naturally partake with the father what- 
ever benefits the marriage might confer.” 

“Ah ! you are an excellent diplomatist, Eug6nie ; and 
2 * B 


18 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


you turn people’s heads by always acting from your heart 
Hush, here comes the Yicomte ! ” 

“A delightful ball,” said Monsieur de Yaudemont, 
approaching the hostess. “ Pray, has that young lady 
yonder, in the pink dress, any fortune ? She is pretty — 
eh ? — you observe she is looking at me — I mean at us ! ” 

“ My dear cousin, what a compliment you pay to 
marriage. You have had two wives, and you are ever 
on the qui vive for a third ! ” 

“ What would you have me do ? — we cannot resist the 
overtures of your bewitching sex. Hum — what fortune 
has she ? ” 

“Not a sou ; besides, she is engaged.” 

“ Oh ! now I look at her — she is not pretty — not at 
all. I made a mistake. I did not mean her. I meant 
the young lady in blue.” 

“Worse and worse — she is married already. Shall I 
present you ? ” 

“Ah, Monsieur de Yandemont,” said Madame d’Anville, 
“have you found out a new bureau de mariage ?” 

The Yicomte pretended not to hear that question. 
But, turning to Eugenie, took her aside, and said with 
an air in which he endeavored to throw a great deal of 
sorrow, — “You know, my dear cousin, that to oblige 
you, I consented to send for my son, though, as I always 
said, it is very unpleasant for a man like me in the prime 
of life to hawk about a great boy of nineteen or twenty. 
People soon say. 4 OM Paudmpon* and ycuv^ Yaude- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


19 


mont.’ However, a father’s feelings are never appealed 
to in vain.” (Here the Yicomte put his handkerchief tc 
his eyes, and after a pause, continued,) — “I sent for 
him, — I even went to your old bonne , Madame Dufour, 
to make a bargain for her lodgings, and this day, guess 
my grief, I received a letter sealed with \black. My so 
is dead ! — a sudden fever — it is shocking ! ” 

“ Horrible ! dead ! — your own son, whom you hardly 
ever saw — never since he was an infant!” 

“ Yes, that softens the blow very much. And now 
you see I must marry. If the boy had been good-look- 
ing, and like me, and so forth, why, as you observed, he 
might have made a good match, and allowed me a certain 
sum, or we could have all lived together.” 

“And your son is dead, and you come to a ball ! ” 

“ Je suis philosopher said the Yicomte, shrugging his 
shoulders. “And, as you say, I never saw him. It saves 
me seven hundred francs a-year. Don’t say a word to 
any one — I sha’n’t give out that he is dead, poor fellow ! 
Pray be discreet : you see there are some ill-natured peo- 
ple who might think it odd I do not shut myself up. I 
can wait till Paris is quite empty. It would be a pity to 
lose any opportunity at present, for now , you see, I must 
marry ! ” And the philosophe sauntered away. 


20 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Guiomar 

“Those devotions I am to pay 
Are written in my heart, not in this book.” 

Enter Rutilio. 

“I am pursued — all the ports are stopped, too. 

Not any hope to escape — behind, before me, 

On either side, I am beset.” 

Beaumont and Fletcher : The Custom of the Country. 

The party were just gone — it was already the peej 
of day the wheels of the last carriage had died in the 
distance. 

Madame de Merville had dismissed her woman, and 
was seated in her room leaning her head musingly on her 
hand. 

Beside her was the table that held her MSS. and a few 
books, amidst which were scattered vases of flowers. On 
a pedestal beneath the window was placed a marble bust 
of Dante. Through the open doors were seen in per- 
spective the room just deserted by her guests — the lights 
still burned in the chandeliers and girandoles, contend- 
ing with the daylight that came through the half-closed 
curtains. The person of the inmate was in harmony with 
the apartment. It was characterised by a certain grace 
which, for want of a better epithet, writers are prone to 
‘all classical or antique Her complexion, seeming paler 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


21 


than usual by that light, was yet soft and delicate — the 
features well cut, but small and womanly. About the 
face there was that rarest of all charms, the combination 
of intellect with sweetness — the eyes, of a dark blue, were 
thoughtful, perhaps melancholy, in their expression ; but 
the long dark lashes, and the shape of the eyes, them- 
selves more long than full, gave to their intelligence a 
softness approaching to languor, increased, perhaps, by 
that slight shadow round and below the orbs which is 
common with those who have tasked too much either the 
mind or the heart. The contour of the face, without 
being sharp or angular, had yet lost a little of the round- 
ness of earlier youth ; and the hand on which she leaned 
was, perhaps, even too white, too delicate, for the beauty 
which belongs to health ; but the throat and bust were 
of exquisite symmetry. 

“I am not happy,” murmured Eugenie to herself; 
“yet I scarce know why. Is it really as we women of 
romance have said till the saying is worn threadbare, 
that the destiny of women is not fame but love ? Strange, 
then, that while I have so often pictured what love should 
be, I have never felt it. And now — and now,” she con- 
tinued, half rising, and with a natural pang, — “now I am 
no longer in my first youth. If I loved, should I be loved 
again ? How happy that young pair seemed — they are 
never alone I ” 

At this moment, at a distance, was heard the report 
of fire-arms — again ! Eug6nie started, and called to her 
lervant, who, with one of the waiters hired for the night, 


22 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


was engaged in removing, and nibbling as he removed, 
the remains of the feast. “ What is that, at this hour ? — 
open the window and look out I ” 

“I can see nothing, madame.” 

“Again — that is the third time. Go into the street 
and look — some one must be in danger.” 

The servant and the waiter, both curious, and not 
willing to part company, ran down the stairs, and thence 
into the street. 

Meanwhile Morton, after vainly attempting Birnie’s 
window, which the traitor had previously locked and 
barred against the escape of his intended victim, crept 
rapidly along the roof, screened by the parapet not only 
from the shot but the sight of the foe. But just as he 
gained the point at which the lane made an angle with 
the broad street it adjoined, he cast his eyes over the 
parapet, and perceived that one of the officers had 
ventured himself to the fearful bridge : he was pursued 
— detection and capture seemed inevitable. He paused 
and breathed hard. He, once the heir to such fortunes, 
the darling of such affections ! — he, the hunted accom- 
plice of a gang of miscreants ! That was tlffi thought 
that paralyzed — the disgrace, not the danger. But he 

was in advance of the pursuer — he hastened on he 

turned the angle — he heard a shout behind from the 
opposite side — the officer had passed the bridge : “it is 
but one man as yet,” thought he, and his nostrils dilated 
and his hands clenched as he glided on, glancing at each 
casement as he passed. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


23 


Now as youth and vigor thus struggled against Law 
for Life, near at hand Death was busy with toil and 
disease. 

In a miserable grabat, or garret, a mechanic, yet young, 
and stricken by a lingering malady contracted by the 
labor of his occupation, was slowly passing from that 
world which had frowned on his cradle, and relaxed not 
the gloom of its aspect to comfort his bed of Death. 
Now this man had married for love, and his wife had 
loved him ; and it was the cares of that early marriage 
which had consumed him to the bone. But extreme 
want, if long continued, eats up love when it has nothing 
else to eat. And when people are very long dying, the 
people they fret and trouble, begin to think of that too 
often hypocritical prettiness of phrase called “ a happy 
release.” So the worn-out and half-famished wife did 
not care three straws for the dying husband whom a year 
or two ago she had vowed to love and cherish in sickness 
and in health. But still she seemed to care, for she 
moaned, and pined, and wept, as the man’s breath grew 
fainter and fainter. 

“Ah, Jean!” said she, sobbing, “what will become 
of me, a poor lone widow, with nobody to work for my 
bread ? ” And with that thought she took on worse 
than before. 

“I am stifling,” said the dying man, rolling round his 
ghastly eyes. “How hot it is! Open the window; I 
should like to see the light — day-light once again.” 

“Mon Dieu! what whims he has, poor man ! ” muttered 
the woman, without stirring. 


24 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


The poor wretch put out his skeleton hand, and clutched 
his wife’s arm. 

“ I shan’t trouble you long, Marie ! Air — air ! ” 

“Jean, you will make yourself worse — besides, I shall 
catch my death of cold. I have scarce a rag on, but I 
will just open the door.” 

“ Pardon me,” groaned the sufferer ; “leave me, then.” 

Poor fellow ! perhaps at that moment the thought 
of unkindness was sharper than the sharp cough which 
brought blood at every paroxysm. He did not like her 
so near him, but he did not blame her. Again, I say — 
poor fellow I 

The woman opened the door, went to the other side 
of the room, and sat down on an old box, and began 
darning an old neck-handkerchief. The silence was soon 
broken by the moans of the fast-dying man, and again 
he muttered, as he tossed to and fro, with baked white 
lips — 

“ Je rn'etouffe ! — Air ! ” 

There was no resisting that prayer, it seemed so like 
the last. The wife laid down the needle, put the hand- 
kerchief round her throat, and opened the window 

“ Do you feel easier now ? ” 

“ Bless you, Marie— yes ; that’s good — good. It puts 
me in mind of old days, that breath of air, before we 
came to Paris. I wish I could work for you now, Marie.” 

“Jean! my poor Jean!” said the woman, and the 
words and the voice took back her hardening heart to 
the fresh fields and tender thoughts of the past time 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


25 


And she walked up to the bed, and he leaned his temples, 
damp with livid dews, upon her breast. 

“ I have been a sad burden to you, Marie : we should 
not have married so soon ; but I thought I was stronger. 
Don’t cry ; we have no little ones, thank God. It will 
be much better for you when I am gone.” 

And so, word after word gasped out, —he stopped sud- 
denly and seemed to fall asleep. 

The wife then attempted gently to lay him once more 
on his pillow — the head fell back heavily — the jaw had 
dropped — the teeth were set — the eyes were open and 
like stone — the truth broke on her ! — 

“ Jean — Jean ! My God, he is dead ! and I was un- 
kind to him at the last ! ” With these words she fell upon 
the corpse, happily herself insensible 

Just at that moment a human face peered in at the 
window. Through that aperture, after a moment’s pause, 
a young man leaped lightly into the room. He looked 
round with a hurried glance, but scarcely noticed the 
forms stretched on the pallet. It was enough for him 
that they seemed to sleep, and saw him not. He stole 
across the room, the door of which Marie had left open, 
and descended the stairs. He had almost gained the 
court-yard into which the stairs conducted, when he heard 
?oices below by the porter’s lodge. 

“ The police have discovered a gang of coiners 1 ” 

“ Coiners ! ” 

“ Yes, one has been shot dead ! I have seen his body 
in the kennel : another has fled along the roofs — a des- 
II— 3 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


perate fellow ! We were to watch for him. Let us go 
up-stairs and get on the roof and look out.” 

By the hum of approval that followed this proposition, 
Morton judged rightly that it had been addressed to 
several persons whom curiosity and the explosion of the 
pistols had drawn from their beds, and who were grouped 
round the porter’s lodge. What was to be done ? — to 
advance was impossible : was there yet time to retreat ? 

— it was at least the only course left him; he sprang 
back up the stairs ; he had just gained the first flight 
when he heard steps descending ; then, suddenly, it flashed 
across him that he had left open the window above — that, 
doubtless, by that imprudent oversight the officer in pur- 
suit had detected a clue to the path he had taken. What 
was to be done ? — die as Gawtrey had done ! — death 
rather than the galleys. As he thus resolved, he saw to 
the right the open door of an apartment in which lights 
still glimmered in their sockets. It seemed deserted — he 
entered boldly and at once, closing the door after him. 
Wines and viands still left on the table ; gilded mirrors, 
reflecting the stern face of the solitary intruder ; here 
and there an artificial flower ; a knot of riband on the 
floor ; all betokening the gaieties and graces of luxurious 
life — the dance, the revel, the feast— all this in one apart- 
ment ! — above, in the same house, the pallet — the corpse 

— the widow — famine and woe ! Such is a great city ! 
such, above all, is Paris ! where, under the same roof, are 
gathered such antagonist varieties of the social state I 
Nothing strange in this ; it is strange and sad, that so 


NIGHT A.ND MORNING. 


21 


little do people thus neighbors know of each other, that 
the owner of those rooms had a heart soft to every dis- 
tress, but she did not know the distress so close at hand. 
The music that had charmed her guests had mounted 
gaily to the vexed ears of agony and hunger. Morton 
passed the first room — a second — he came to a third, and 
Eugenie de Merville, looking up at that instant, saw be- 
fore her an apparition that might well have alarmed the 
boldest. His head was uncovered — his dark hair shadowed 
in wild and disorderly profusion the pale face, and features, 
beautiful indeed, but at that moment of the beauty which 
an artist would impart to a young gladiator — stamped 
with defiance, menace, and despair. The disordered garb 
— the fierce aspect — the dark eyes, that literally shone 
through the shadows of the room — all conspired to in- 
crease the terror of so abrupt a presence. 

“ What are you ? — What do you seek here ? ” said she, 
falteringly, placing her hand on the bell as she spoke. 
Upon that soft hand Morton laid his own. 

“ I seek my life ! I am pursued ! I am at your mercy ! 
I am innocent ! Can you save me ? ” 

As he spoke, the door of the outer room beyond was 
heard to open, and steps and voices were at hand. 

"Ah!” he exclaimed, recoiling as he recognised her 
face. "And is it to you that I have fled ? ” 

Eugenie also recognised the stranger ; and there was 
something in their relative positions — the suppliant, the 
protectress — that excited both her imagination and her 
pity. A slight color mantled to her cheeks — her look 
was gentle and compassionate. 


28 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Poor boy ! so young ! ” she said, “ Hush ! ” 

She withdrew her hand from his, retired a few steps, 
lifted a curtain drawn across a recess— and pointing to an 
alcove that contained one of those sofa-beds common in 
French houses, added in a whisper, — 

“Enter — you are saved 1” 

Morton obeyed, and Eugenie replaced the curtain. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Guiomak. 

“Speak! What are you?’ 

Rutilio. 

“ Gracious woman, hear me. I am a stranger ; 

And in that I answer all your demands.” 

Custom of the Country. 

Eugenie replaced the curtain. And scarcely ha( otie 
done so, ere the steps in the outer room entered the 
chamber where she stood. Her servant was accompt .lied 
by two officers of the police. 

“ Pardon, madarne,” said one of the latter ; “ but we 
are in pursuit of a criminal. We think he must have 
entered this house through a window above while your 
servant was in the street. Permit us to search ? ” 

“ Without doubt,” answered Eugenie, seating herself. 
“ If he has entered, look in the other apartments. [ have 
not quitted this room.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 29 

“You are right. Accept our apologies.” 

And the officers turned back to examine every corner 
where the fugitive was not. For in that, the scouts of 
Justice resembled their mistress : when does man’s justice 
look to the right place ? 

The servant lingered to repeat the tale he had hoard 
— the sight he had seen. When, at that instant, he saw 
the curtain of the alcove slightly stirred. He uttered an 
exclamation — sprung to the bed — his hand touched 
the curtain — Eugenie seized his arm. She did not 
speak ; but as he turned his eyes to her, astonished, he 
saw that she trembled, and that her cheek was as white 
as marble. 

“ Madame,” he said, hesitatingly, “ there is some one 
hid in the recess.” 

“ There is ! Be silent ! ” 

A suspicion flashed across tne servant’s mind. The 
pure, the proud, the immaculate Eugenie ! 

“ There is ! — and in madame’s chamber ! ” he faltered 
unconsciously. 

Eugenie’s quick apprehensions seized the foul thought. 
Her eyes flashed — her cheek crimsoned. But her lofty 
and generous nature conquered even the indignant and 
scornful burst that rushed to her lips. The truth ! — 
could she trust the man ? A doubt — and the charge 
of the human life rendered to her might be betrayed. 
Her color fell — tears gushed to her eyes. 

“ I have been kind to you, Francis. Hot a word I” 

“Madame confides in me — it is enough,” said the 
3 * 


so 


NIGHT ANL MORNING. 


Frenchman, bowing, with a slight smile on his lips ; and 
he drew back respectfully. 

One of the police-officers re-entered. 

“We have done, madame, he is not here. Aha ! that 
curtain ! ” 

“It is madame’s bed|” said Francois. “But I have 
looked behind. ” 

“ I am most sorry to have disarranged you,” said the 
policeman, satisfied with the answer ; “but we shall have 
him yet.” And he retired. 

The last footsteps died away, the last door of the 
apartments closed behind the officers, and Eugenie and 
her servant stood alone gazing on each other. 

“You may retire,” said she, at last; and taking her 
purse from the table, she placed it in his hands. 

The man took it, with a significant look. 

“Madame may depend on my discretion.” 

Eugenie was alone again. Those words rang in her 
ear, — Eugenie de Merville dependent on the discretion 
of her lackey ! She sunk into her chair, and, her excite- 
ment succeeded by exhaustion, leaned her face on her 
hands, and burst into tears. She was aroused by a low 
voice ; she looked up, and the young man was kneeling at 
her feet. 

“ Go — go 1 ” she said : “ I have done for you all I 
can. You heard — you heard — my own hireling, too ! 
At the hazard of my own good name you are saved. 
Go l” 

“Of your good name ! ” — for Eugenie forgot that it 
2b 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


31 


* r as looks, not words, that had so wrung her pride — 
“Your good name,” he repeated: and glancing round 
the room — the toilette, the curtain, the recess he had 
quitted — all that bespoke that chastest sanctuary of a 
chaste woman, which for a stranger to enter is, as it 
were, to profane — her meaning broke on him. “Your 
good name! — your hireling! No, madame — no!” 
And as he spoke, he rose to his feet. “ Not for me, that 
sacrifice ! Your humanity shall not cost you so dear. 
Ho, there ! I am the man you seek.” And he strode to 
the door. 

Eugenie was penetrated with the answer. She sprung 
to him — she grasped his garments. 

“ Hush ! hush ! — for mercy’s sake ! What would you 
do ? Think you I could ever be happy again, if the 
confidence you placed in me were betrayed ? Be calm — 
be still. I knew not what I said. It will be easy to un- 
deceive the man — later — when you are saved. And 
you are innocent, — are you not?” 

“ Oh, madam,” said Morton, “from my soul, I say it, 

I am innocent — not of poverty — wretchedness error 

— shame; I am innocent of crime. May Heaven bless 
you ! ” And as he reverently kissed the hand laid on his 
arm, there was something in his voice so touching, in his 
manner something so above his fortunes, that Eugenie 
was lost in her feelings of compassion, surprise, and 
something, it might be, of admiration in her wonder. 

“ And, oh ! ” ne said, passionately, gazing on her with 
his dark, brilliant eyes, liquid with emotion, “you have 


32 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


made my life sweet in saving it. You — you — of whom, 
ever since the first time, almost the sole time, I beheld 
you — I have so often mused and dreamed. Henceforth, 
whatever befall me, there will be some recollections that 
will — that ” 

He stopped short, for his heart was too full for words ; 
and the silence said more to Eugenie than if all the elo- 
quence of "Rousseau had glowed upon his tongue. 

“ And who, and what are you ? ” she asked, after a 
pause. 

“An exile — an orphan — an outcast! I have no 
name ! Farewell ! ” 

“ No — stay yet — the danger is not past. Wait till 
my servant is gone to rest ; I hear him yet. Sit down — . 
sit down. And whither would you go ? ” 

“I know not.” 

“Have you no friends?” 

“ None.” 

“ No home ? ” 

“ None.” 

“ And the police of Paris so vigilant ! ” cried Eugenie, 
wringing her hands. “What is to be done? I shall 
have saved you in vain — you will be discovered! Of 
what do they charge you ? Not robbery — not ” 

And she, too, stopped short, for she did not dare to 
breathe the black word — “ Murder !V> 

“I know not,” said Morton, putting his hand to his 
forehead, — “ except of being friends with the only man 
who befriended me — and they have killed him ! ” 




NIGHT AND MORNING. 


33 


“Another time you shall tell me all.” 

“Another time ! ” he exclaimed, eagerly — “ shall I see 
you again ? ” 

Eugenie blushed beneath the gaze and the voice of joy. 

“Yes,” she said ; “yes. But I must reflect. Be calm 
— be silent. Ah ! — a happy thought ! ” 

She sat down, wrote a hasty line, sealed, and gave it 
to Morton. 

“ Take this note, as addressed, to Madame Dufour ; it 
will provide you with a safe lodging. She is a person I 
can depend on — an old servant who lived with my mother, 
and to whom I have given a small pension. She has a 
lodging — it is lately vacant — I promised to procure her 
a tenant, — go — say nothing of what has passed. I will 
see her, and arrange all. Wait ! — hark ! — all is still ! 
I will go first and see that no one watches you. Stop,” 
(and she threw open the window, and looked into the 
court.) “ The porter’s door is open — that is fortunate ! 
Hurry on, and God be with you ! 1 

In a few minutes Morton was in the streets. It was 
still early — the thoroughfares deserted — none of the shops 
yet open. The address on the note was to a street at 
some distance, on the other side of the Seine. He passed 
along the same Quai which he had trodden but a few 
hours since — he passed the same splendid bridge on which 
he had stood despairing, to quit it revived — he gained 
the Hue Faubourg St. Honore. A young man in a 
cabriolet, on whose fair cheek burned the hectic of late 
vigils and lavish dissipation, was rolling leisurely home 
a* c 


34 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


from the gaming-house, at which he had been more than 
usually fortunate — his pockets were laden with notes and 
gold. He bent forwards as Morton passed him. Philip, 
absorbed in his reverie, perceived him not, and continqed 
his way. The gentleman turned down one of the streets 
to the left, stopped, and called to the servant dozing be- 
nind his cabriolet. 

“ Follow that passenger ! quietly — see where he 
lodges ; be sure to find out and let me know. I shall go 
home without you.” With that he drove on. 

Philip, unconscious of the espionage , arrived at a small 
house in a quiet but respectable street, and rang the bell 
several times before at last he was admitted by Madame 
Dufour herself, in her night-cap. The old woman looked 
askant and alarmed at the unexpected apparition. But 
the note at once seemed to satisfy her. She conducted 
him to an apartment on the first floor, small, but neatly 
and even elegantly furnished, consisting of a sitting-room 
and a bed-chamber, and said, quietly, — 

“ Will they suit monsieur ? ” 

To monsieur they seemed a palace. Morton nodded 
assent. 

“And will monsieur sleep for a short time ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ The bed is well-aired. The rooms have only been 
vacant three days since. Can I get you anything till 
your luggage arrives ? 7 

“ No.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


35 


The woman left him. He threw off his clothes — filing 
himself on the bed — and did not wake till noon. 

When his eyes unclosed — when they rested on that calm 
chamber, with its air of health, and cleanliness, and com- 
fort, it was long before he could convince himself that he 
was yet awake. He missed the loud, deep voice of Gaw- 
trey — the smoke of the dead man’s meerschaum — the 
gloomy garret — the distained walls — the stealthy whis- 
per of the loathed Birnie ; slowly the life led and the life 
gone within the last twelve hours grew upon his strug- 
gling memory. He groaned, and turned uneasily round, 
when the door slightly opened, and he sprung up fiercely — 

“ Who is there ? ” 

‘ It is only I, sir,” answered Madame Dufour. “ I have 
been in three times to see if you were stirring. There is 
a letter I believe for you, sir ; though there is no name 
to it,” and she laid the letter on the chair beside him. 
Did it come from her — the saving angel ? He seized it 
The cover was blank ; it was sealed with a small device, 
as of a ring seal. He tore it open, and found four billets 
de banque for 1000 francs each, — a sum equivalent in our 
money to about 160Z. 

“ Who sent this, the — the lady from whom I brought 
the note ? ” 

“ Madame de Merville ? certainly not, sir,” said Mad- 
ame Dufour, who, with the privilege of age, was now un- 
scrupulously filling the water-jugs and settling the toilette- 
table “ A young man called about two hours after you 
had gone to bed; and describing you, inquired if you 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


86 

lodged here, and what your name was. I said you had 
just arrived, and that I did not yet know your name. So 
he went away, and came again half-an-kour afterwards 
with this letter, which he charged me to deliver to you 
safely. ” 

“A young man — a gentleman ?” 

“ "No, sir ; he seemed a smart but common sort of lad.” 
For the unsophisticated Madame Dufour did not discover 
in the plain black frock and drab gaiters of the bearer of 
that letter the simple livery of an English gentleman’s 
groom. 

Whom could it come from, if not from Madame de 
Merville? Perhaps one of Gawtrey’s late friends. A 
suspicion of Arthur Beaufort crossed him, but he indig- 
nantly dismissed it. Men are seldom credulous of what 
they are unwilling to believe I What kindness had the 
Beauforts hitherto shown him ? — Left his mother to per- 
ish broken-hearted — stolen from him his brother, and 
steeled, in that brother, the only heart wherein he had a 
right to look for gratitude and love ! No, it must be 
Madame de Merville. He dismissed Madame Dufour for 
pen and paper — rose — wrote a letter to Eugenie — grateful, 
but proud, and enclosed the notes. He then summoned 
Madame Dufour, and sent her with his despatch. 

“Ah, madame,” said the ci-devant bonne, when she 
found herself in Eugenie’s presence. “ The poor lad ! 
how handsome he is, and how shameful in the Yicomte 
to let him wear such clothes ! ” 

“ The Yicomte ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


31 


“Oh, my dear mistress, you must not deny it. Yon 
told me, in your note, to ask him no questions, but I 
guessed at once. The Yicomte told me himself that he 
should have the young gentleman over in a few days. 
You need not be ashamed of him. You will see what a 
difference clothes will make in his appearance ; and I 
have taken it on myself to order a tailor to go to him 
The Yicomte must pay me.” 

“ Not a word to the Yicomte as yet. We will surprise 
him,” said Eugenie, laughing. 

Madame de Merville had been all that morning trying 
to invent some story to account for her interest in the 
lodger, and now how Fortune favored her ! 

“ But is that a letter for me ? ” 

“And I had almost forgot it,” said Madame Dufour, 
as she extended the letter. 

Whatever there had hitherto been in the circumstances 
connected with Morton, that had roused the interest and 
excited the romance of Eugenie de Merville, her fancy 
was yet more attracted by the tone of the letter she now 
read. For though Morton, more accustomed to speak 
than to write French, expressed himself with less pre- 
cision, and a less euphuistic selection of phrase, than the 
authors and elegans who formed her usual correspondents ; 
there was an innate and rough nobleness — a strong and 
profound feeling in every line of his letter, which increased 
her surprise and admiration. 

“All that surrounds him — all that belongs to him, is 

II. — 4 


/ 


38 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

strangeness and mystery ! ” murmured she ; and she sat 
down to reply. 

When Madame Dufour departed with that letter, 
Eugenie remained silent and thoughtful for more than an 
hour. Morton’s letter before her ; and sweet, in their 
indistinctiveness, were the recollections and the images 
that crowded on her mind. 

Morton, satisfied by the earnest and solemn assurances 
of Eugenie that she was not the unknown doner of the 
sum she reinclosed, after puzzling himself in vain to form 
any new conjectures as to the quarter whence it came, 
felt that under his present circumstances it would be an 
absurd Quixotism to refuse to apply what the very Provi- 
dence to whom he had arfew consigned himself seemed 
to have sent to his aid. And it placed him, too, beyond 
the offer of all pecuniary assistance from one from whom 
he could least have brooked to receive it. He consented, 
therefore, to all that the loquacious tailor proposed to 
him. And it would have been difficult to have recognized 
th,e wild and frenzied fugitive in the stately and graceful 
form, with its young beauty and air of well-born pride, 
which the next day sat by the side of Eugenie. And 
that day he told his sad and troubled story, and Eugenie 
wept ; and from that day he came daily ; and two weeks 

happy, dream-like, intoxicating to both — passed by; 

and as their last sun set, he was kneeling at her feet, and 
breathing to one to whom the homage of wit, and genius, 
and complacent wealth, had hitherto been vainly proffered, 
the impetuous, agitated, delicious secrets of the First T*ove 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


3 ° 

He spoke, and rose to depart for ever — when the look 
and sigh detained him. 

The next day, after a sleepless night, Eugenie de Mer- 
ville sent for the Yicomte de Yaudemont. 


CHAPTER XI Y. 

“A silver river small 
In sweet accents 
Its music vents ; — 

The warbling virginal. 

To which the merry birds do sing 
Timed with stops of gold the silver string.” 

Sir Richard Fanshaw. 

One evening, several weeks after the events just com 
memorated, a stranger, leading in his hand a young child, 

entered the church-yard of H . The sun had not 

long set, and the short twilight of deepening summer 
reigned in the tranquil skies ; you might still hear from 
the trees above the graves the chirp of some joyous 
bird ; — what cared he, the denizen of the skies, for the 
dead that slept below? — what did he value save the 
greenness and repose of the spot — to him alike, the 
garden or the grave ! As the man and the child passed, 
the robin, scarcely scared by their tread from the long 
grass beside one of the mounds, looked at them with its 
hright, blithe eye. It was a famous spot for the robin — 
tne old church-yard ! That domestic bird — “ the friend 


40 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

of man,” as it has been called by the poets — found a 
jolly supper among the worms ! 

The stranger, on reaching the middle of the sacred 
ground, paused and looked round him wistfully. He 
then approached, slowly and hesitatingly, an oblong 
tablet, on which were graven, in letters yet fresh and 
new, these words : — 

TO THE 

MEMORY OF ONE CALUMNIATED AND WRONGED, 

THIS BURIAL-STONE IS DEDICATED 
BY HER SON. 

Such, with the addition of the dates of birth and death, 
was the tablet which Philip Morton had directed to be 
placed over his mother’s bones ; and around it was set a 
simple palisade, which defended it from the tread of the 
children, who sometimes, in defiance of the beadle, played 
over the dust of the former race. 

“ Thy son ! ” muttered the stranger, while the child 
stood quietly by his side, pleased by the trees, the grass, 
.the song of the birds, and recking not of grief or death 
— “thy son ! — but not thy favored son — thy darling — 
thy youngest born ; on what spot of earth do thine eyes 
look down on him ? Surely in heaven thy love has pre- 
served the one whom on earth thou didst most cherish, 
from the sufferings and the trials that have visited the 
less-favored outcast. Oh. mother — mother ! — it was 
not his crime — not Philip’s — that he did not fulfil to 
the last the trust bequeathed to him ! Happier, perhaps, 
as it is ! And, oh 1 if thy memory be graven as deeply 
in my brother’s heart as my own, how often will if warn 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


41 


and save Mm ! That memory 1 — it has been to me the 
angel of my life! To thee — to thee, even in death, I 
owe it, if, though erring, I am not criminal, — if I have 
lived with the lepers, and am still undefiled ! ” His lips 
then were silent — not his heart! 

After a few minutes thus consumed, he turned to the 
child, and said, gently and in a tremulous voice, — 
“ Fanny, you have been taught to pray — you will live 
near this spot, — will you come sometimes here and pray 
that you may grow up good and innocent, and become a 
blessing to those who love you ? ” 

“Will papa ever come to hear me pray?” 

That sad and unconscious question went to the heart 
of Morton. The child could not comprehend death. He 
had sought to explain it, but she had been accustomed to 
consider her protector dead when he was absent from her, 
and she still insisted that he must come again to life. 
And that man of turbulence and crime, who had passed 
unrepentant, unabsolved, from sin to judgment : it was an 
awful question — “ If he should hear her pray ? ” 
“Yes!” said he, after a pause, — “yes, Fanny, there 
is a Father who will hear you pray ; and pray to Him to 
be merciful to those who have been kind to you. Fanny, 
you and I may never meet again ! ” 

“Are you going to die too ? Mechant, every one dies 
to Fanny ! ” and, clinging to him endearingly, she put up 
her lips to kiss him. He took her in his arms ; and, as a 
tear fell upon her rosy cheek, she said, “Don’t cry, 
brother, for I love you.” 

4 * 


42 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Do you, dear Fanny ? Then, for my sake, when you 
come to this place, if any one will give you a few flowers, 
scatter them on that stone. And now we will go to one 
whom you must love also, and to whom, as I have told 

you, he sends you ; he who Come ! ” 

As he thus spoke, and placed Fanny again on the 
ground, he was startled to see, precisely on the spot 
where he had seen before the like apparition — on the 
same spot where the father had cursed the son, the 
motionless form of an old man. Morton recognised, as 
if by an instinct rather than by an effort of the memory, 
the person to whom he was bound. 

He walked slowly towards him ; but Fanny abruptly 
left his side, lured by a moth that flitted duskily over the 
graves. 

“Your name, sir, I think, is Simon Gawtrey?” said 
Morton. “ I have come to England in quest of you.” 

“ Of me ? ” said the old man, half rising, and his eyes, 
now completely blind, rolled vacantly over Morton’s 
person, — “Of me ? — for what ? — Who are you ? — I 
don’t know your voice 1 ” 

“ I come to you from your son 1 ” 

“ My son ! ” exclaimed the old man, with great vehe- 
mence, — “ the reprobate 1 — the dishonored ! — the in- 
famous ! — the accursed ” 

“ Hush ! you revile the dead 1 ” 

“ Dead ! ” muttered the wretched father, tottering back 
to the seat he had quitted, — “ dead 1 ” and the sound of 
his voice was so full of anguish, that the dog at his feet. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 43 

which Morton had not hitherto perceived, echoed it with 
a dismal cry, that recalled to Philip the awful day in 
which he had seen the son quit the father for the last time 
on earth. 

The sound brought Fanny to the spot; and, with a 
laugh of delight, which made to it a strange contrast, she 
threw herself on the grass beside the dog and sought 1o 
entice it to play. So there, in that place of death, were 
knit together the four links in the Great Chain ; — lusty 
and blooming life — desolate and doting age — infancy, 
yet scarce conscious of a soul — and the dumb brute, that 
has no warrant of an Hereafter ! 

“ Dead ! — dead ! ” repeated the old man, covering his 
sightless balls with his withered hands. “ Poor William !” 

“ He remembered you to the last. He bade me seek 
you out — he bade me replace the guilty son with a thing 
pure and innocent, as he had been had he died in his 
cradle — a child to comfort your old age ! Kneel, Fanny, 
I have found you a father who will cherish you — (oh! 
you will, sir, will you not ?) — as he whom you may see 
no more ! ” 

There was something in Morton’s voice so solemn, that 
it awed and touched both the old man and the infant ; 
and Fanny, creeping to the protector thus assigned to 
her, and putting her little hands confidingly on his knees, 
said — 

“ Fanny will love you if papa wished it. Kiss Fanny.” 

“Is it his child — his ! ” said the blind man, sobbing. 
• Come to ray heart ; here — here ! 0 God,, forgive me ! ” 

2c 


44 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Morton did not think it right at that moment to unde- 
ceive him with regard to the poor child’s true connexion 
with the deceased ; and he waited in silence till Simon, 
after a burst of passionate grief and tenderness, rose, and, 
still clasping the child to his breast, said — 

“ Sir, forgive me! — I am a very weak old man — I 
have many thanks to give — I have much, too, to learn. 
My poor son ! he did not die in want — did he ?” 

The particulars of G-awtrey’s fate, with his real name 
and the various aliases he had assumed, had appeared 
in the French journals, and been partially copied into 
the English ; and Morton had expected to have been 
saved the painful narrative of that fearful death ; but the 
utter seclusion of the old man, his infirmity, and his 
estranged habits, had shut him out from the intelligence 
that it now devolved on Philip to communicate. Morton 
hesitated a little before he answered — 

“ It is late now ; you are not yet prepared to receive 
this poor infant at your home, nor to hear the details I 
have to state. I arrived in England but to-day. I shall 
lodge in the neighborhood, for it is dear to me. If I 
may feel sure, then, that you will receive and treasure 
this sacred and last deposit bequeathed to you by your 
unhappy son, I will bring my charge to you to-morrow, 
and we will then, more calmly than we can now, talk over 
the past.” 

“You do not answer my question,” said Simon, 
passionately ; “ answer that, and I will wait for the rest. 
They call me a miser ! Did I send out my only child to 
starve ? Answer that ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


45 


“ Be comforted. He did not die in want ; and he has 
even left some little fortune for Fanny, which I was to 
place in your hands.” 

“And he thought to bribe the old miser to be human * 
Well — well — well! I will go home.” 

“ Lean on me ! ” 

The dog leaped playfully on his master as the latter 
rose, and Fanny slid from Simon’s arms to caress and 
talk to the animal in her own way. As they slowly 
passed through the church-yard, Simon muttered inco- 
herently to himself for several paces, and Morton would 
not disturb, since he could not comfort, him. 

At last he said, abruptly — “ Bid my son repent ? ” 

“I hope,” answered Morton, evasively, “that, had his 
life been spared, he would have amended ! ” 

“Tush, sir! — I am past seventy; we repent! — we 
never amend ! ” And Simon again sunk into his own dim 
and disconnected reveries. ^ 

At length they arrived at the blind man’s house. The 
door was opened to them by an old woman of disagree- 
able and sinister aspect, dressed out much too gaily for 
the station of a servant, though such was her reputed 
capacity ; but the miser’s affliction saved her from the 
chance of his comment on her extravagance. As she 
stood in the door-way with a candle in her hand, she 
scanned curiously, and with no welcoming eye, her master’s 
companions. 

“ Mrs. Boxer, my son is dead 1 ” said Simon, in a hollow 
*oice. 


46 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“And a good thing it is, then, sir ! ” 

“ For shame, woman ! ” said Morton, indignantly 
“ Hey-day ! sir ! Whom have we got here ? ” 

11 One,” said Simon, sternly, “ whom you will treat with 
respect. He brings me a blessing to lighten my loss. 
One harsh word to this child, and you quit my house 1 ” 
The woman looked perfectly thunderstruck ; but, re- 
covering herself, she said, whiningly, — 

“ I ! a harsh word to anything my dear, kind master 
cares for. And, Lord, what a sweet pretty creature it is ! 
Come here, my dear ! ” 

But Fanny shrunk back, and would not let go Philip’s 
hand. 

“ To-morrow, then,” said Morton ; and he was turning 
away, when a sudden thought seemed to cross the old 
man, — 

“ Stay, sir, — stay ! I — I — did my son say I was rich ? 
I am very, very poor — nothing in the house, or I should 
have been robbed long ago 1 ” 

“ Your son told me to bring money, not to ask for it !” 
“Ask for it ! No ; but,” added the old man, and a 
gleam of cunning intelligence shot over his face, — “ but 
he had got into a bad set. Ask 1 — No ! — Put up the 
door-chain, Mrs. Boxer ! ” 

It was with doubt and misgivings that Morton, the 
next day, consigned the child, who had already nestled 
herself into the warmest core of his heart, to the care of 
Simon. Nothing short of that superstitious respect, 
which all men owe to the wishes of the dead, would have 


NIGHT AND MORNING. *? 

made him select for her that asylum ; for Fate had now, 
in brightening his own prospects, given him an alternative 
in the benevolence of Madame de Merville. But Gaw- 
trey had been so earnest on the subject, that he felt as if 
he had no right to hesitate. And was it not a sort of 
atonement to any faults the son might have committed 
against the parent, to place by the old man’s hearth so 
sweet a charge ? 

The strange and peculiar mind and character of Fanny 
made him, however, yet more anxious than otherwise he 
might have been. She certainly deserved not the harsh 
name of imbecile or idiot, but she was different from all 
other children ; she felt more acutely than most of^ her 
age, but she could not be taught to reason. There was 
something either oblique or deficient in her intellect, 
which justified the most melancholy apprehensions ; yet 
often, when some disordered, incoherent, inexplicable 
train of ideas most saddened the listener, it would be 
followed by fancies so exquisite in their strangeness, or 
feelings so endearing in their tenderness, that suddenly 
she seemed as much above, as before she seemed below 

9 

the ordinary measure of infant comprehension. She was 
like a creature to which Nature, in some cruel but bright 
caprice, has given all that belongs to poetry, but denied 
all that belongs to the common understanding necessary 
to mankind ; or, as a fairy changeling, not, indeed, ac- 
cording to the vulgar superstition, malignant and de- 
formed, but lovelier than the children of men, and haunted 
by dim and struggling associations of a gentler and fairei 


48 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


oeing, yet wholly incapable to learn the dry and hard 
elements which make up the knowledge of actual life. 

Morton, as well as he could, sought to explain to Simon 
the peculiarities in Fanny’s mental constitution. He 
urged on him the necessity of providing for her careful 
instruction, and Simon promised to send her to the best 
school the neighborhood could afford; but, as the old 
man spoke, he dwelt so much on the supposed fact that 
Fanny was William’s daughter, and with his remorse, or 
affection, there ran so interwoven a thread of selfishness 
and avarice, that Morton thought it would be dangerous 
to his interest in the child to undeceive his error. He, 
therefore, — perhaps excusably enough, — remained silent 
on that subject. 

Gawtrey had placed with the superior of the convent, 
together with an order to give up the child to any one 
who should demand her in his true name, which he con- 
fided to the superior, a sum of nearly £300, which he 
solemnly swore had been honestly obtained, and which, in 
all his shifts and adversities, he had never allowed him- 
self to touch. This sum, with the trifling deduction made 
for arrears due to the convent, Morton now placed in 
Simon’s hands. The old man clutched the money, which 
was for the most part in French gold, with a convulsive 
gripe ; and then, as if ashamed of the impulse, said,— ■ 

“ But you, sir, — will any sum — that is, any reasonable 
sum — be of use to you?” 

“ No 1 and if it were, it is neither yours nor mine — it 
is hers. Save it for her, and add to it what you can. ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


49 


While this conversation took place, Fanny had been 
consigned to the care of Mrs. Boxer, and Philip now rose 
to see and bid her farewell before he departed. 

“I may come again to visit you, Mr. Gawtrey ; and I 
pray Heaven to find that you and Fanny have been a 
mutual blessing to each other. Oh, remember how your 
son loved her ! ” 

“ He had a good heart in spite of all his sins. Poor 
William 1 ” said Simon. 

Philip Morton heard, and his lip curled with a sad and 
a just disdain. 

If, when at the age of nineteen, William Gawtrey had 
quitted his father’s roof, the father had then remembered 
that the son’s heart was good, — the son had been alive 
still, an honest and a happy man. Do ye not laugh, 0 
ye all-listening Fiends ! when men praise those dead 
whose virtues they discovered not when alive ? It takes 
much marble to build the sepulchre — how little of lath 
and plaster would have repaired the garret ! 

On turning into a small room adjoining the parlor 
in which Gawtrey sat, Morton ^found Fanny standing 
gloomily by a dull, soot-grimed window, which looked 
out on the dead walls of a small yard. Mrs. Boxer, 
seated by a table, was employed in trimming a cap, and 
putting questions to Fanny in that falsetto voice of en- 
dearment in which people not used to children are apt to 
address them. 

“And sOj my dear, they’ve never taught you to read 
or write ? You’ve been sadly neglected, poor thing ! ” 
II.— 5 d 


50 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


"We must do our best to supply the deficiency,” said 
Morton, as he entered. 

" Bless me, sir, is that you ? ” and the gouvernante 
bustled up and dropped a low courtesy ; for Morton, 
dressed then in the garb of a gentleman, was of a mien 
and person calculated to strike the gaze of the vulgar. 

"Ah, brother ! ” cried Fanny, for by that name he had 
taught her to call him ; ayd she flew to his side. " Come 
away — it’s ugly here — it makes me cold.” 

" My child, I told you, you must stay ; but I shall hope 
to see you again some day. Will you not be kind to 
this poor creature, ma’am ? Forgive me, if I offended 
you last night, and favor me by accepting this to show 
that we are friends.” As he spoke, he slid his purse 
into the woman’s hand. “ I shall feel ever grateful for 
whatever you can do for Fanny.” 

" Fanny wants nothing from any one else ; Fanny 
wants her brother.” 

" Sweet child 1 I fear she don’t take to me. Will you 
like me, Miss Fanny 1 ” 

“ No ! get along ! x 

“ Fie, Fanny 1 — you remember you did not take to me 
at first. But she is so affectionate, ma'am ; she never 
forgets a kindness.” 

“ I will do all I can to please her, sir. And so she is 
really master’s grandchild?” The woman fixed her eyes, 
as she spoke, so intently on Morton, that he felt embar- 
rassed, and busied himself, without answering, in caressing 
and soothing Fanny, who now seemed to awake to the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


51 


affliction about to visit her ; for though she did not weep 
— she very rarely wept — her slight frame trembled — her 
eyes closed — her cheeks, even her lips, were white — and 
her delicate hands were clasped tightly round the neck 
of the one about to abandon her to strange breasts. 

Morton was greatly moved. “ One kiss, Fanny ! and 
do not forget me when we meet again.” 

The child pressed her lips to his cheek, but the lips 
were cold. He put her down gently ; she stood mute 
and passive. 

“Remember that he wished me to leave you here,” 
whispered Morton, using an argument that never failed. 
“We must obey him : and so — God bless you, Fanny ! ” 

He rose and retreated to the door ; the child unclosed 
her eyes, and gazed at him with a strained, painful, im- 
ploring gaze : her lips moved, but she did not speak. 
Moyton could not bear that silent woe. He sought to 
smile on her consolingly ; but the smile would not come. 
He closed the door, and hurried from the house. 

From that day Fanny settled into a kind of dreary, 
inanimate stupor, which resembled that of the somnam- 
bulist whom the magnetiser forgets to waken. Hitherto, 
with all the eccentricities or deficiencies of her mind, had 
minded a wild and airy gaiety. That was vanished. She 
spoke little — she never played— no toys could lure her— 
even the poor dog failed to win her notice. If she was 
told to do anything, she stared vacantly, and stirred not. 
She evinced, however, a kind of dumb regard to the old 
blind man ; she would creep to his knees, and sit there 


52 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


for hours, seldom answering when he addressed her ; but 
uneasy, anxious, and restless, if he left her. 

“ Will you die too ? ” she asked once ; the old man un- 
derstood her not, and she did not try to explain. Early 
one morning, some days after Morton was gone, they 
missed her : she was not in the house, nor the dull yard 
where she was sometimes dismissed and told to play — 
told in vain. In great alarm, the old man accused Mrs. 
Boxer of having spirited her away ; and threatened and 
stormed so loudly, that the woman, against her will, went 
forth to the search. At last, she found the child in the 
church-yard, standing wistfully beside a tomb. 

“ What do you here, you little plague ? ” said Mrs. 
Boxer, rudely seizing her by the arm. 

“ This is the way they will both come back some day 1 
[ dreamt so ! ” 

“ If ever I catch you here again ! ” said the house- 
keeper ; and, wiping her brow with one hand, she struck 
the child with the other. Fanny had never been struck 
before. She recoiled in terror and amazement ; and, for 
the first time since her arrival, burst into tears. 

“ Come — come, no crying I and if you tell master, I’ll 
beat you within an inch of your life ! ” So saying, she 
caught Fanny in her arms ; and, walking about, scolding 
and menacing, till she had frightened back the child’s 
tears, she returned triumphantly to the house, and, burst- 
ing into the parlor, exclaimed, “ Here’s the little darling, 
sir ! ” 

When old Simon learned where the child had been 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


53 

found, he was glad ; for it was his constant habit, when- 
ever the evening was fine, to glide out to that church- 
yard — his dog his guide — and sit on his own favorite 
spot opposite the setting sun. This, not so much for the 
sanctity of the place, or the meditations it might inspire, 
as because it was the nearest, the safest, and the loneliest 
spot, in the neighborhood of his home, where the blind 
man could inhale the air, and bask in the light of heaven. 
Hitherto, thinking it sad for the child, he had never taken 
her with him : indeed, at the hour of his monotonous 
excursion, she had generally been banished to bed. Now 
she was permitted to accompany him ; and the old man 
and the infant would sit there side by side, as Age and 
Infancy rested side by side in the graves below. The first 
symptom of child-like interest and curiosity that Fanny 
betrayed was awakened by the affliction of her protector. 
One evening, as they thus sat, she made him explain what 
the desolation of blindness is. She seemed to comprehend 
him, though he did not seek to adapt his complaints to 
her understanding. 

“ Fanny knows,” said she, touchingly ; “for she, too, 
is blind here ; ” and she pressed her hands to her temples. 

Notwithstanding her silence and strange ways, and 
although he could not see the exquisite loveliness which 
Nature, as in remorseful pity, had lavished on her out- 
ward form, Simon soon learned to love her better than 
he had ever loved yet : for they most cold to the child 
are often dotards to the grandchild. For her even his 
avarice slept. Dainties, never before known at his sparing 

5 * 

% 


54 NICHT AND MORNING. 

board, were ordered to tempt her appetite ; — toy-shops 
ransacked to amuse her indolence. He was long, how- 
ever, before he could prevail on himself to fulfil his pro- 
mise to Morton, and rob himself of her presence. At 
length, however, wearied with Mrs. Boxer’s lamentations 
at her ignorance, and alarmed himself at some evidences 
of helplessness, which made him dread to think what her 
future might be when left alone in life, he placed her at a 
day-school in the suburb. Here Fanny, for a considerable 
time, justified the harshest assertions of her stupidity. 
She could not even keep her eyes two minutes together 
on the page from which she was to learn the mysteries 
of reading ; months passed before she mastered the alpha- 
bet, and, a month after, she had again forgot it, and the 
labor was renewed. The only thing in which she showed 
ability, if so it might be called, was in the use of the 
needle. The sisters of the convent had already taught 
her many pretty devices in this art, and when she found 
that at the school they were admired — that she was praised 
instead of blamed — her vanity was pleased, and she learned 
so readily all that they could teach in this not unprofitable 
accomplishment, that Mrs. Boxer slyly and secretly turned 
her tasks to account, and made a weekly perquisite of the 
poor pupil’s industry. Another faculty she possessed, in 
common with persons usually deficient, and with the lower 
species, — viz. a most accurate and faithful recollection of 
places. At first, Mrs. Boxer had been duly sent morning, 
noon, and evening, to take her to, or bring her from, the 
school ; but this was so great a grievance to Simon’s so* 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


55 


litary superintendent, and Fanny coaxed the old man so 
endearingly to allow her to go and return alone, that the 
attendance, unwelcome to both, was waived. Fanny ex- 
ulted in this liberty ; and she never, in going or in return- 
ing^missed passing through the burial-ground, and gazing 
wistfully at the tomb from which she yet believed Morton 
would one day reappear. With his memory, she cherished 
also that of her earlier and more guilty protector ; but 
they were separate feelings, which she distinguished in her 
own way, — 

“ Papa had given her up. She knew that he would 
not have sent her away, far, — far over the great water, 
if he had meant to see Fanny again ; but her brother was 
forced to leave her — he would come to life one day, and 
then they should live together ! ” 

One day, towards the end of autumn, as her school-mis- 
tress, a good woman on the whole, but who had not yet 
had the wit to discover by what chords to tune the in- 
strument, over which so wearily she drew her unskilful 
hand — one day, we say, the school-mistress happened to 
be dressed for a christening party to which she was in- 
vited in the suburb ; and, accordingly, after the morning 
lessons, the pupils were to be dismissed to a holiday. As 
Fanny now came last, with the hopeless spelling-book, 
she stopped suddenly short, and her eyes rested with 
avidity upon a large bouquet of exotic flowers, with which 
the good lady had enlivened the centre of the parted ker- 
chief, whose yellow gauze modestly veiled that tender 
section of female beauty which poets have likened to hills 


56 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


of snow — a chilling simile ! It was then autumn; and 
field, and even garden flowers, were growing rare. 

“ Will you give me one of those flowers ? ” said Fanny, 
dropping her book. 

“One of these flowers, child! why ? ” 

Fanny did not answer ; but one of the elder and cleverer 
girls said, — 

“ Oh ! she comes from France, you know, ma’am, and 
the Roman Catholics put flowers, and ribands, and things, 
over the graves ; you recollect, ma’am, we were reading 
yesterday about Pere-la-Chaise ? ” 

“Well! what then?” 

“ And Miss Fanny will do any kind of work for us if 
we will give her flowers.” 

“ My brother told me where to put them ; — but these 
pretty flowers, I never had any like them ; they may bring 
him back again ! I’ll be so good if you’ll give me one, 
i — only one ! ” 

“ Will you learn your lesson if I do, Fanny ? ” 

“ Oh ! yes ! Wait a moment ! ” 

And Fanny stole back to her desk, put the hateful 
book resolutely before her, pressed both hands tightly on 
her temples, — Eureka! the chord was touched; and 
Fanny marched in triumph through half a column of 
hostile double-syllables ! 

From that day the school-mistress knew how to stimu- 
late her, and Fanny learned to read : her path to know- 
ledge thus literally strewn with flowers ! Catherine, thy 
children were far off, and thy grave looked gay ! 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


51 


It naturally happened that those short and simple 
rhymes, often sacred, which are repeated in schools as 
helps to memory, made a part of her studies ; and no 
sooner had the sound of verse struck upon her fancy than 
it seemed to confuse and agitate anew all her senses. It 
was like the music of some breeze, to which dance and 
tremble all the young leaves of a wild plant. Even when 
at the convent she had been fond of repeating the infant 
rhymes with which they had sought to lull, or to amuse 
her, but now the taste was more strongly developed. 
She confounded, however, in meaningless and motley dis- 
order, the various -snatches of song that came to her ear, 
weaving them together in some form which she under- 
stood, but which was jargon to all others ; and often, as 
she went alone through the green lanes or the bustling 
streets, the passenger would turn in pity and fear to hear 
her half chant — half murmur — ditties that seemed to 
suit only a wandering and unsettled imagination. And 
as Mrs. Boxer, in her visits to the various shops in the 
suburb, took care to bemoan her hard fate in attending 
to a creature so evidently moon-stricken, it was no won^ 
der that the manner and habits of the child, coupled with 
that strange predilection to haunt the burial-ground, 
which is not uncommon with persons of weak and dis 
ordered intellect, confirmed the character thus given to 
her. 

So, as she tripped gaily and lightly along the thorough- 
fares, the children would draw aside from her path, and 
whisper, with superstitious fear mingled with contempt, 
5 *' 




58 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


— “It’s the idiot girl ! ” — Idiot — how much more of 
heaven’s light was there in that cloud than in the rush- 
lighta that, flickering in sordid chambers, shed on dull 
things the dull ray — esteeming themselves as stars ! 

Months — years passed — Fanny was thirteen, when 
there dawned a new era to her existence. Mrs. Boxer 
had never got over her first grudge to Fanny. Her 
treatmeu t of the poor girl was always harsh, and some- 
times cruel. But Fanny did not complain ; and as Mrs. 
Boxer’s manner to her before Simon was invariably cring- 
ing and caressing, the old man never guessed the hard- 
ships his supposed grandchild underwent. There had 
been scandal some years back in the suburb about the re- 
lative connexion of the master and the housekeeper ; and 
the flaunting dress of the latter, something bold in her 
regard, and certain whispers that her youth had not been 
vowed to Yesta, confirmed the suspicion. The only 
reason why we do not feel sure that the rumor was false 
is this, — Simon Gawtrey had been so hard on the early 
follies of his son ! Certainly, at all events, the woman 
had exercised great influence over the miser before the 
arrival of Fanny, and she had done much to steel his 
selfishness against the ill-fated William. And, as cer- 
tainly, she had fully calculated on succeeding to the 
savings, whatever they might be, of the miser, whenever 
Providence should be pleased to terminate his days. She 
knew that Simon had, many years back, made his will in 
her favor ; she knew that he had not altered that will : 
she believed, therefore, that in spite of all his love for 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


59 


Fanny, he loved his gold so much more, that he could 
not accustom himself to the thought of bequeathing it to 
hands too helpless to guard the treasure. This had in 
some measure reconciled the housekeeper to the intruder ; 
whom, nevertheless, she hated as a dog hates another 
dog not only for taking his bone, but for looking at it. 

But suddenly Simon fell ill. His age made it probable 
he would die. He took to his bed — his breathing grew 
fainter and fainter — he seemed dead. Fanny, all uncon- 
scious, sat by his bedside as usual, holding her breath 
not to waken him. Mrs. Boxer flew to the bureau — she 
unlocked it — she could not find the will; but she found 
three bags of bright old guineas : the sight charmed her. 
She tumbled them forth on the distained green cloth of 
the bureau — she began to count them ; and at that' 
moment, the old man, as if there were a secret magnetism 
between himself and the guineas, woke from his trance. 
His blindness saved him the pain that might have been 
fatal, of seeing the unhallowed profanation : but he heard 
the chink of the metal. The very sound restored his 
strength. But the infirm are always cunning^-he breathed 
not a suspicion. “ Mrs. Boxer,” said he, faintly, “ I 
think I could take some broth. ” Mrs. Boxer rose in 
great dismay, gently reclosed the bureau, and ran down 
stairs for the broth. Simon took the occasion to question 
Fanny ; and no sooner had he learnt the operation of the 
heir-expectant, than he bade the girl first lock the bureau 
and bring him the key, and next run to a lawyer, (whose 

address 1 e gave her,) and fetch him instantly. 

2d 


oO 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


With a malignant smile the old man took the broth 
from his handmaid, — “ Poor Boxer, you are a disinte- 
rested creature,” said he, feebly ; “ I think you will grieve 
when I go.” 

Mrs. Boxer sobbed ; and before she had recovered, the 
lawyer entered. That day a new will was made ; and the 
Lawyer politely informed Mrs. Boxer that her services 
would be dispensed with the next morning, when he 
should bring a nurse to the house. Mrs. Boxer heard, 
and took her resolution. As soon as Simon again fell 
asleep, she crept into the room — -led away Fanny — locked 
her up in her own chamber — returned — searched for the 
key of the bureau, which she found at last under Simon’s 
pillow — possessed herself of all she could lay her hands 
on — and the next morning she had disappeared for ever ! 
Simon’s loss was greater than might have been supposed ; 
for, except a trifling sum in the Savings’ Bank, he, like 
many other misers, kept all he had, in notes or specie, 
under his own lock and key. His whole fortune, indeed, 
was far less than was supposed ; for money does not 
make money unless it is put out to interest, — and the 
miser cheated himself. Such portion as was in bank- 
notes Mrs. Boxer probably had the prudence to destroy ; 
for those numbers which Simon could remember were 
never traced ; the gold, who could swear to ? Except 
the pittance in the Savings’ Bank, and whatever might 
be the paltry worth of the house he rented, the father 
who had enriched the menial to exile the son was a beg- 
gar in his dotage. This news, however, was carefully 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


61 


concealed from him by the advice of the doctor, whom, 
on his own responsibility, the lawyer introduced, till he 
had recovered sufficiently to bear the shock without dan- 
ger > and the delay naturally favored Mrs. Boxer’s escape. 

Simon remained for some moments perfectly stunned 
and speechless when the news was broken to him. Fanny, 
in alarm at his increasing paleness, sprang to his breast. 
He pushed her away, — “ Go — go — go, child,” he said ; 
“ I can’t feed you now. Leave me to starve.” 

“ To starve I ” said Fanny, wonderingly ; and she stole 
away, and sat herself down as if in deep thought. She 
then crept up to the lawyer as he was about to leave the 
room, after exhausting his stock of commonplace conso- 
lation ; and putting her hand in his, whispered, “ I want 
to talk to you — this way : ” — She led him through the 
passage into the open air. “Tell me,” she said, “when 
poor people try not to starve, don’t they work?” 

“ My dear, yes.” • 

“For rich people buy poor people’s work?” 
“Certainly, my dear; to be sure.” 

“ Yery well. Mrs. Boxer used to sell my work. Fanny 
will feed grandpapa ! Go and tell him never to say 1 starve 
again.” 

The good-natured lawyer was moved. — ‘ Can you work, 
indeed, my poor girl ? Well, put on your bonnet, and 
come and talk to my wife.” 

And that was the new era in Fanny's existence I Her 
schooling was stopped But now life schooled her. Ne- 
ll.— 6 


62 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


eessity ripened her intellect. And many a hard eye 
moistened, — as seeing her glide with her little basket of 
fancy-work along the streets, still murmuring her happy 
and bird-like snatches of unconnected song — men and 
children alike said with respect, in which there was now 
no contempt, “ It’s the idiot girl who supports her Uind 
grandfather 1 ” 

They called her idiot still I 


BOOK FOURTH. 


£in ju cinent grofen fSittte 
Irieb mid) feiner SEBcttcn £piel; 

»oc ntic tiegj’S in roeiter Ceete, 

9?a()cc bin id) nid;t bent 3iel.” 

Schiller : Der Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER I. 

“Oh, that sweet gleam of sunshine on the lake ” 

Wilson’s City of the Plague. 

If, reader, yon have ever looked through a solar micro- 
scope at the monsters in a drop of water, perhaps you 
have wondered to yourself how things so terrible have 
been hitherto unknown to you — you have felt a loathing 
at the limpid element you hitherto deemed so pure — you 
have half fancied that you would cease to be a, water- 
drinker ; yet, the next day you have forgotten the grim 
life that started before you, with its countless shapes, in 
that teeming globule ; and, if so tempted by your thirst, 
you have not shrunk from the lying crystal, although 
myriads of the horrible Unseen are mangling, devouring, 
gorging each other, in the liquid you so tranquilly imbibe ; 
so is it with that ancestral and master element called 
Life. Lapped in your sleek comforts, and lolling on tho 

( 63 ) 


64 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


sofa of your patent conscience — when, perhaps for the 
first time, you look through the glass of science upon one 
ghastly globule in the waters that heave around, that fill 
up, with their succulence, the pores of earth, that moisten 
every atom subject to your eyes, or handled by your touch 
— you are startled and dismayed ; you say, mentally, 
“ Can such things be ? I never dreamed of this before ! 

1 thought what was invisible to me was non-existent in 
itself — I will remember this dread experiment.” The 
next day ihe experiment is forgotten. — The Chemist may 
purify the Globule — can Science make pure the World ? 

Turn we now to the pleasant surface, seen in the whole, 
broad and fair to the common eye. Who would judge 
well of God’s great designs, if he could look on no drop 
pendent from the rose-tree, or sparkling in the sun, with* 
out the help of his solar microscope ? 

It is ten years after the night on which William Gaw- 
trey perished : — I transport you, reader, to the fairest 
scenes in England, — scenes consecrated, by the only true 
pastoral poetry we have known, to Contemplation and 
Repose. 

Autumn had begun to tinge the foliage on the banks 
of Winandermere. It had been a summer of unusual 
warmth and beauty ; and if that year you had visited the 
English lakes, you might, from time to time, amidst the 
groups of happy idlers you encountered, have singled out 
two persons for interest, or, perhaps, for envy. Two who 
might have seemed to you in peculiar harmony with those 
serene and soft retreats — both young, both beautiful. 


v 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


65 


Lovers you would have guessed them to be ; but such 
lovers as Fletcher might have placed under the care of 
his “Holy Shepherdess” — forms that might have re 
dined by 

“ The Virtuous well, about whose flowery banks 
The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds 
By the pale moonshine.” 

For in the love of those persons there seemed a purity 
and innocence that suited well their youth and the clia 
racter of their beauty. Perhaps, indeed, on the girl’s 
side, love sprung rather from those affections which the 
spring of life throws upward to the surface, as the spring 
of earth does its flowers, than from that concentrated and 
deep absorption of self in self, which alone promises en- 
durance and devotion, and of which first love, or rather 
the first fancy, is often less susceptible than that which 
grows out of the more thoughtful fondness of maturer 
years. Yet he, the lover, was of so rare and singular a 
beauty, that he might well seem calculated to awaken, to 
the utmost, the love which wins the heart through the 
eyes. 

But to begin at the beginning. A lady of fashion had, 
m the autumn previous to the year on which our narrative 
re-opens, taken, with her daughter, a girl then of about 
eighteen, the tour of the English lakes. Charmed by the 
beauty of Winandermere, and finding one of the most 
commodious villas on its banks to be let, they had re- 
mained there all the winter. In the early spring a severe 
illness had seized the elder lady, and finding herself, as 
6 * 


66 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

she slowly recovered, unfit for the gaieties of a London 
season, nor unwilling, perhaps, — for she had been a beauty 
in her day — to postpone for another year the debut of her 
daughter, she had continued her sojourn, with short in- 
tervals of absence, for a whole year. Her husband, a 
busy man of the world, with occupation in London, and 
fine estates in the country, joined them only occasionally, 
glad to escape the still beauty of landscapes, which 
brought him no rental, and therefore afforded no charm 
to his eye. 

In the first month of their arrival at Winandermere, 
the mother and daughter had made an eventful acquaint- 
ance in the following manner. 

One evening, as they were walking on their lawn, which 
sloped to the lake, they heard the sound of a flute, played 
with a skill so exquisite as to draw them, surprised and 
spell-bound, to the banks." The musician was a young 
man, in a boat, which he had moored beneath the trees 
of their demesne. He was alone, or, rather, he had one 
companion, in a large Newfoundland dog, that sat watch- 
ful at the helm of the boat, and appeared to enjoy the 
music as much as his master. As the ladies approached 
the spot, the dog growled, and the young man ceased, 
though without seeing the fair causes of his companion’s 
displeasure. The sun, then setting, shone full on his 
countenance as he looked round ; and that countenance 
was one that might have haunted the nymphs of Delos ; 
the face of Apollo, not as the hero, but the shepherd — ■ 
not of the bow, but of the lute — not the Python-slayer, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


67 


but the young dreamer by shady places — he whom the 
sculptor has portrayed leaning idly against the tree — the 
boy-god whose home is yet on earth, and to wnom the 
Oracle and the Spheres are still unknown. 

At that moment the dog leaped from the boat, and the 
elder lady uttered a faint cry of alarm, which, directing 
the attention of the musician, brought him also ashore. 
He called off his dog, and apologised, with a not un- 
graceful mixture of diffidence and ease, for his intrusion. 
He was not aware the place was inhabited — it was a 
favorite haunt of his — he lived near. The elder lady was 
pleased with his address, and struck with his appearance. 
There was, indeed, in his manner, that indefinable charm, 
which is more attractive than mere personal appearance, 
and which can never be imitated or acquired. They 
parted, however, without establishing any formal ac- 
quaintance. A few days after, they met at dinner at a 
neighboring house, and were introduced by name. That 
of the young man seemed strange to the ladies ; not so 
theirs to him. He turned pale when he heard it, and re- 
mained silent and aloof the rest of the evening. They 
met again and often ; and for some weeks — nay, even for 
months — he appeared to avoid, as much as possible, the 
acquaintance so auspiciously begun ; but by little and 
little, the beauty of the younger lady seemed to gain 
ground on his diffidence or repugnance. Excursions 
among the neighboring mountains threw them together, 
and at last he fairly surrendered himself to the charm he 
nad at first determined to resist. 


68 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


This young man lived on the opposite side of the lake, 
in a quiet household, of which he was the idol. His life 
had been one of almost monastic purity and repose ; his 
tastes were accomplished, his character seemed soft and 
gentle ; but beneath that calm exterior, flashes of passion 
— the nature of the poet, ardent and sensitive — would 
break forth at times. He had scarcely ever, since his 
earliest childhood, quitted those retreats ; he knew nothing 
of the world, except in books — books of poetry and 
romance. Those with whom he lived — his relations, an 
old bachelor, and the old bachelor’s sisters, old maids — 
seemed equally innocent and inexperienced. It was a 
family whom the rich respected, and the poor loved — in- 
offensive, charitable, and well off. To whatever their 
easy fortune might be, he appeared the heir. ~The name 
of this young man was Charles Spencer ; the ladies were 
Mrs. Beaufort, and Camilla her daughter. 

Mrs. Beaufort, though a shrewd woman, did not at first 
perceive any danger in the growing intimacy between 
Camilla and the younger Spencer. Her daughter was 
not her favorite — not the object of her one thought or 
ambition. Her whole heart and soul were wrapped in 
her son Arthur, who lived principally abroad. Clever 
enoagh to be considered capable, when he pleased, of 
achieving distinction, good-looking enough to be thought 
handsome by all who were on the qui vive for an ad- 
vantageous match, good-natured enough to be popular 
with the society in which he lived, scattering to and fro 
money without limit, — Arthur Beaufort, at the age of 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


6ff 


thirty, had established one of those brilliant and evanes 
cent reputations, which, for a few years, reward the am- 
bition of the fine gentleman. It was precisely the reputa- 
tion that the mother could appreciate, and which even the 
more saving father secretly admired, while, ever respecta- 
ble in phrase, Mr. Robert Beaufort seemed openly to 
regret it. This son was, I say, everything to them ; they 
cared little, in comparison, for their daughter. How 
could a daughter keep up the proud name of Beaufort ? 
However well she might marry, it was another house, not 
theirs, which her graces and beauty would adorn. More- 
over, the better she might marry, the greater her dowry 
would naturally be, — the dowry, to go out of the family ! 
And Arthur, poor fellow ! was so extravagant, that 
really he would want every sixpence. Such was the 
reasoning of the father. The mother reasoned less upon 
the matter. Mrs. Beaufort, faded and meagre, in blonde 
and cachemere, was jealous of the charms of her daughter ; 
and she herself, growing sentimental and lachrymose af 
she advanced in life, as silly women often do, had con 
vinced herself that Camilla was a girl of no feeling. 

Miss Beaufort was, indeed, of a character singularly 
calm and placid ; it was the character that charms meii 
in proportion, perhaps, to their own strength and passion 
She had been rigidly brought up — her affections had 
been very early chilled and subdued ; they moved, there- 
fore, now, with ease, in the serene path of her duties. 
She held her parents, especially her father, in reverential 
fear, and never dreamed of the possibility of resisting one 


70 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


of their wishes, much less their commands. Pious, kind, 
gentle, of a fine and never-ruffled temper, Camilla, an 
admirable daughter, was likely to make no less admirable 
a wife ; you might depend on her principles, if ever you 
could doubt her affection. Few girls were more calculated 
to inspire love. You would scarcely wonder at any 
folly, any madness, which even a wise man might commit 
for her sake. This did not depend on her beauty alone, 
though she was extremely lovely rather than handsome, 
and of that style of loveliness which is universally fas- 
cinating : the figure, especially as to the arras, throat, 
and bust, was exquisite ; the mouth dimpled ; the teeth 
dazzling; the eyes of that velvet softness which to look 
on is to love. But her charm was in a certain prettiness 
of manner, an exceeding innocence, mixed with the most 
captivating, because unconscious, coquetry. With all 
this, there was a freshness, a joy, a virgin and bewitching 
candor in her voice, her laugh — you might almost say in 
her very movements. Such was Camilla Beaufort at 
that age. Such she seemed to others. To her parents 
she was only a great girl rather in the way. To Mrs. 
Beaufort a rival, to Mr. Beaufort an incumbrance on the 
property 


{ 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 7l 


CHAPTER II. 

* * * “ The moon 

Saddening the solemn night, yet with that sadness 
Mingling the breath of undisturbed Peace.” 

Wilson : City of the Plague. 

• * * * “ Tell me his fate. 

Say that he lives, or say that he is dead : 

But tell me — tell me ! — 
******* 

I see him not — some cloud envelopes him.” — Ibid. 

One day (nearly a year after their first introduction) as 
with a party of friends Camilla and Charles Spencer were 
riding through those wild and romantic scenes which lie 
between the sunny Winandermere and the dark and sullen 
Wastwater, their conversation fell on topics more personal 
than it had hitherto done, for as yet, if they felt love, they 
had never spoken of it. 

The narrowness of the path allowed only two to ride 
abreast, and the two to whom I confine my description 
were the last of the little band. 

“ How I wish Arthur were here I ” said Camilla ; “ I 
am sure you would like him.” 

“Are you ? He lives much in the world — the world 
of which I know nothing. Are we then characters to 
suit each other ? ” 

“ He is the kindest — the best of human beings ! ” said 


72 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Camilla, rather evasively, but with more warmth than 
usually dwelt in her soft and low voice. 

“Is he so kind ? ” returned Spencer, musingly*. “Well, 
it may be so. And who would not be kind to you ? Ah 1 
it is a beautiful connexion that of brother and sister — I 
never had a sister 1 ” 

“Have you then a brother? ” asked Camilla, in some 
surprise, and turning her ingenuous eyes full on her com- 
panion. 

Spencer’s color rose — rose to his temples: his voice 
trembled as he answered “No; — no brother!” then, 
speaking in a rapid and hurried tone, he continued, “My 
life has been a strange and lonely one. I am an orphan. 

I have mixed with few of my own age : my boyhood and 
youth have been spent in these scenes ; my education 
such as Nature and books could bestow, with scarcely 
any guide or tutor save my guardian — the dear old man ! 
Thus the world, the stir of cities, ambition, enterprise, — 
all seem to me as things belonging to a distant land to 
which I shall never wander. Yet I have had my dreams, 
Miss Beaufort ; dreams of which these solitudes still form 
a part — but solitudes not unshared. And lately I have 
thought that those dreams might be prophetic. And 
you — do you love the world ? ” 

“ I, like you, have scarcely tried it,” said Camilla, with 
a sweet laugh. “But I love the country better, — oh 1 
far better than what little I have seen of towns. But for 
you,” she continued, with a charming hesitation, “ a man 
is so different from us, — for you to shrink from the world 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 73 

— you, so young and with talents too — nay, it is true ! — 
it seems to me strange.” 

“ It may be so, but I cannot tell you what feelings of 
dread — what vague forebodings of terror, seize me if I 
carry my thoughts beyond these retreats. Perhaps, my 

good guardian ” 

“ Your uncle ? ” interrupted Camilla. 

“Ay, my uncle — may have contributed to engender 

feelings, as you say, strange at my age ; but still ” 

“ Still what 1 ” 

“ My earlier childhood,” continued Spencer, breathing 
hard and turning pale, “ was not spent in the happy home 
I have now : it was passed in a premature ordeal of 
suffering and pain. Its recollections have left a dark 
shadow on my mind, and under that shadow lies every 
thought that points towards the troublous and laboring 
career of other men. But,” he resumed after a pause, 
and in a deep, earnest, almost solemn voice, — “but, 
after all, is this cowardice or wisdom ? I find no monotony 
— no tedium in this quiet life. Is there not a certain 
morality — a certain religion in the spirit of a secluded 
and country existence ? In it we do not know the evil 
passions which ambition and strife are said to arouse. 
I never feel. jealous or envious of other men; I never 
know what it is to hate ; my boat, my horse, our garden, 
music, books, and, if I may dare to say so, the solemn 
gladness that comes from the hopes of another life, — 
these fill up every hour with thoughts and pursuits, 
II— 7 


74 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


peaceful, happy, and without a cloud, till of late, when— * 
when ” 

“ When what ? ” said Camilla, innocently 
“ When I have longed, but did not dare, to ask another 
if to share such a lot would content her ! ” 

He bent, as he spoke, his soft blue eyes full upon the 
blushing face of her whom he addressed, and Camilla 
half smiled and half sighed, — 

“ Our companions are far before us,” said she, turning 
away her face ; “and see, the road is now smooth.” She 
quickened her horse’s pace as she said this ; and Spencer, 
too new to women to interpret favorably her evasion of 
his words and looks, fell into a profound silence which 
lasted during the rest of their excursion. 

As towards the decline of day he bent his solitary way 
home, emotions and passions to which his life had hitherto 
been a stranger, and which, alas 1 he had vainly imagined 
a life so tranquil would everlastingly restrain, swelled his 
heart. 

“ She does not love me,” he muttered, half aloud ; “ she 
will leave me, and what then will all the beauty of the 
landscape seem in my eyes ? And how dare I look up 
to her ? Even if her cold, vain mother — her father, the 
man, they say, of forms and scruples, were to consent, 
would they not question closely of my true birth and 
origin ? And if the one blot were overlooked, is there 
no other ? His early habits and vices, his! — a brother’s 
— his unknown career terminating at any day, perhaps, 
in shame, in crime, in exposure, in the gibbet, — will they 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


75 


overlook tliis ? ” As he spoke, he. groaned aloud, and, 
as if impatient to escape himself, spurred on his horse 
and rested not till he reached the belt of trim and sober 
evergreens that surrounded his hitherto happy home. 

Leaving his horse to find its way to the stables, the 
young man passed through rooms, which he found de- 
serted, to the lawn on the^other side, which sloped to the 
smooth waters of the lake. 

Here, seated under the one large tree that formed the 
pride of the lawn, over which it cast its shadow broad 
and far, he perceived his guardian poring idly over an 
oft-read book, one of those books of which literary 
dreamers are apt to grow fanatically fond — books by 
the old English writers, full of phrases, and conceits half 
quaint and half sublime, interspersed with praises of the 
country, imbued with a poetical rather than orthodox 
religion, and adorned with a strange mixture of monastic 
learning and aphorisms collected from the weary ex- 
perience of actual life. 

To the left, by a green-house, built between the house 
and the lake, might be seen the white dress and lean form 
of the eldest spinster sister, to whom the care of the 
flowers — for she had been early crossed in love — was con- 
signed ; at a little distance from her, the other two were 
seated at work, and conversing in whispers, not to disturb 
their studious brother, no doubt upon the nephew, who 
was their all in all. It was the calmest hour of eve, and 
the quiet of the several forms, their simple and harmless 
occupations — if occupations they might be called — the 

2e 




76 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


breathless foliage rich in the depth of summer ; behind, 
the old-fashioned house, unpretending, not mean, its open 
doors and windows giving glimpses of the comfortable 
repose within ; before, the lake, without a ripple and 
catching the gleam of the sunset clouds, — all made a pic- 
ture of that complete tranquillity and stillness, which 
sometimes soothes and sometimes saddens us, according 
as we are in the temper to woo Content. 

The young man glided to his guardian and touched 
his shoulder, — “ Sir, may I speak to you ? — Hush ! they 
need not see us now 1 it is only you I would speak with.” 

The elder Spencer rose ; and, with his book still in his 
hand, moved side by side with his nephew under the 
shadow of the tree and towards a walk to the right, which 
led for a short distance along the margin of the lake, 
backed by the interlaced boughs of a thick copse. 

“ Sir 1 ” said the young man, speaking first, and with a 
visible effort, “ your cautions have been in vain ! I love 
this girl — this daughter of the haughty Beauforts ! I love 
her — better than life I love her!” 

“My poor boy,” said the uncle tenderly, and with a 
simple fondness passing his arm over the speaker’s 
shoulder, “ do not thiuk I can chide you — I know what 
it is to love in vain 1 ” 

“ In vain ! — but why in vain ? ” exclaimed the youuger 
Spencer, with a vehemence that had in it something of 
both agony and fierceness. “She may love me — she 
shall love me!” and almost for the first time in his life, 
the proud consciousness of his rare gifts of person spoke 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


n 

in his kindled eye and dilated stature. “Do they not say 
that Nature has been favorable to me ? — What rival have 
I here ? — Is she not young ? — And (sinking his voice till 
it almost breathed like music) is not love contagious ?” 

“ I do not doubt that she may love you — who would 
lot ? but — but — the parents, will they ever consent ? ” 

“ Nay ! ” answered the lover, as with that inconsistency 
common to passion, he now argued stubbornly against 
those fears in another to which he had just before yielded 
in himself, — “ Nay ! — after all, am I not of their own 
blood ? — Do I not come from the elder branch — Was 1 
not reared in equal luxury and with higher hopes ? — And 
my mother — my poor mother — did she not to the last 
r maintain our birthright — her own honor ? — Has not ac- 
cident or law unjustly stripped us of our true station ? — 
Is it not for us to forgive spoliation ? — Am I not, in fact, 
the person who descends, who forgets the wrongs of the 
dead — the heritage of the living ? ” 

The young man had never yet assumed this tone — had 
never yet shown that he looked back to the history con- 
nected with his birth with the feelings of resentment and 
the remembrance of wrong. It was a tone contrary to 
his habitual calm and contentment — it struck forcibly on 
his listener — and the elder Spencer was silent for some 
moments before he replied, “ If you feel thus, (and it is 
natural,) you have yet stronger reason to struggle against 
this unhappy affection.” 

“ I have been conscious of that, sir,” replied the young 
man, mournfully. “ I have struggled ! — and I say agaiu 
1 * 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


78 

it is in vain ! I turn, then, to face the obstacles ! My 
birth — let us suppose that the Beauforts overlook it. Did 
you not tell me that Mr Beaufort- wrote to inform you 
of the abrupt and intemperate visit of my brother — of 
his determination never to forgive it ? I think I remem- 
ber something of this, years ago.” 

“ It is true ! ” said the guardian ; “ and the conduct of 
that brother is, in fact, the true cause why you never 
ought to reassume your proper name ! — never to divulge 
it, even to the family with whom you connect yourself by 
marriage ; but, above all, to the Beauforts, who for that 
cause, if that cause alone, would reject your suit.” 

The young man groaned — placed one hand before his 
eyes, and with the other grasped his guardian’s arm con- 
vulsively, as if to check him from proceeding farther; 
but the good man, not divining his meaning, and absorbed 
in his subject, went on, irritating the wound he had 
touched. 

“Reflect ! — your brother in boyhood — in the dying 
hours of his mother, scarcely saved from the crime of a 
thief, flying from a friendly pursuit with a notorious re- 
probate ; afterwards implicated in some discreditable 
transaction about a horse, rejecting all — every hand that 
could save him, clinging by choice to the lowest com- 
panions and the meanest habits, disappearing from the 
country, and last seen, ten years ago — the beard not yet 
on his chin — with that same reprobate of whom I have' 
spoken, in Paris ; a day or so only before his companion, 
a coiner — a murderer — fell by the hands of the police 1 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


79 


You remember that when, in your seventeenth year, you 
evinced some desire to retake your name — nay, even to 
refind that guilty brother — I placed before you, as a sad 
and terrible duty, the newspaper that contained the par- 
ticulars of the death and the former adventures of that 
wretched accomplice, the notorious Gawtrey. And, — 
telling you that Mr. Beaufort had long since written to 
inform me that his own son and Lord Lilburne had seen 
your brother in company with the miscreant just before 
his fate — nay, was, in all probability, the very youth 
described in the account as found in his chamber and 
escaping the pursuit — I asked you if you would now ven- 
ture to leave that disguise — that shelter under which you 
would for ever be safe from the opprobrium of the world 
— from the shame that, sooner or later, your brother must 
bring upon your name ! ” 

“ It is true — it is true ! ” said the pretended nephew, 
in a tone of great anguish, and with trembling lips which 
the blood had forsaken. “ Horrible to look either to his 
past or his future 1 But — but — we have heard of him no 
more — no one ever has learned his fate. Perhaps — per- 
haps” (and he seemed to breathe more freely) — “ my bro 
ther is no more /” 

And poor Catherine — and poor Philip — had it come 
to this ? Did the one brother feel a sentiment of release, 
of joy, in conjecturing the death — perhaps the death of 
violence and shame — of his fellow-orphan ? Mr. Spencer 
shook his head doubtingly, but made no reply. The 
young man sighed heavily and strode on for several paces 


80 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


ir advance of his protector, then, turning back, he laid 
his hand on his shoulder. 

‘ Sir,” he said, in a low voice and with downcast eyes, 
“you are right : this disguise — this false name — must 
be for ever borne ! Why need the Beauforts, then, ever 
know who and what I am ? Why not as your nephew — 
nephew to one so respected and exemplary — proffer mj 
cliims and plead my cause!” 

“ They are proud — so it is said — and worldly ; — you 
know my family was in trade — still — but — ” and here 
Mr. Spencer broke off from a tone of doubt into that of 
despondency, “ but, recollect, though Mrs. Beaufort may 
not remember the circumstance, both her husband and 
her son have seen me — have known my name. Will 
they not suspect, when once introduced to you, the 
stratagem that has been adopted ? — Nay, has it not been 
from that very fear that you have wished me to shun the 
acquaintance of the family ? Both Mr. Beaufort and 
Arthur saw you in childhood, and their suspicion onc^ 
aroused, they may recognise you at once ; your features 
are developed, but not altogether changed. Come, come 1 
— my adopted, my dear son, shake off this fantasy be- 
times : let us change the scene : I will travel with you — 
read with you — go where ” 

“Sir — sir!” exclaimed the lover, smiting his breast, 
“you are ever kind, compassionate, generous; but' do 
not — do not rob me of hope. I have never — thanks 
to you — felt, save in a momentary dejection, the rnrse 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


8 1 


of my birth. Now how heavily it falls ! Where shall I 
look for comfort ? ” 

As he spoke, the sound of a bell broke over the trans- 
lucent air and the slumbering lake : it was the bell that 
every eve and morn summoned that innocent and pious 
family to prayer. The old man’s face changed as he 
heard it — changed from its customary indolent, absent, 
listless aspect, into an expression of dignity, even of 
animation. 

“ Hark ! ” he said, pointing upwards ; “ Hark ! it chides 
you. Who shall say, ‘ where shall I look for comfort,’ 
while God is in the Heavens ? ” 

The young man, habituated to the faith and observance 
of religion, till they had pervaded his whole nature, 
bowed his head in rebuke; a few tears stole from his 
eyes. 

“You are right, father ,” he said, tenderly, giving 
emphasis to the deserved and endearing name. “ I am 
comforted already ! ” 

So, side by side, silently and noiselessly, the young 
and the old man glided back to the house. When they 
gained the quiet room in which the family usually 
assembled, the sisters and servants were already gathered 
round the table. They knelt as the loiterers entered, 
[t was the wonted duty of the younger Spencer to read 
the prayers ; and, as he now did so, his graceful counte- 
nance more hushed, his sweet voice more earnest than 
usual, in its accents ; who that heard could have deemed 
the heart within convulsed by such stormy passions ? Or 


7* 


P 


82 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


was it not In that hour — that solemn commune — soothed 
from its woe ? 0, beneficent Creator ! thou who in- 

spirest all the tribes of earth with the desire to pray , 
hast thou not, in that divinest instinct, bestowed on us 
the happiest of thy gifts ? 

/ 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Bertram. I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of 
it hereafter. 

******* 

“ 1st Soldier. Do you know this Captain Dumain?” 

All’s Well that Ends Well . 

One evening, some weeks after the date of the last 
chapter, Mr. Robert Beaufort sat alone in his house in 
Berkeley Square. He had arrived that morning from 
Beaufort Court, on his w T ay to Winandermere, to which 
he was summoned by a letter from his wife. 

That year was an agitated and eventful epoch in 
England ; and Mr. Beaufort had recently gone through 
the bustle of an election — not, indeed, contested; for 
his popularity and his property defied all rivalry in his 
own county. 

The rich man had just dined, and was seated in lazy 
enjoyment by the side of the fire, which he had had 
lighted, less for the warmth — though it was then 
September — than for the companionship ; — engaged in 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


83 


finishing his madeira, and, with half-closed eyes, munching 
his devilled biscdits. 

“ I am sure,” he soliloquised, while thus employed, “ I 
don’t know exactly what to do — my wife ought to decide 
matters where the girl is concerned ; a son is another 
affair — that’s the use of a wife. Humph ! ” 

“ Sir,” said a fat servant, opening the door, “a gentle- 
man wishes to see you upon very particular business.” 

“Business at this hour ! Tell him to go to Mr. Black- 
well.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Stay ! perhaps he is a constituent, Simmons. • Ask 
him if he belongs to the county.”] 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“A great estate is a great plague,” muttered Mr. 
Beaufort ; “so is a great constituency. It is pleasanter, 
after all, to be in the House of Lords. I suppose I 
could if I wished; but then one must rat — that’s a 
bore. I will consult Lilburne. Humph ! ” The servant 
re-appeared. 

“Sir, he says he does belong to the county.” 

“Show him in! — What sort of a person?” 

“A sort of gentleman, sir; that is,” continued the 
butler, mindful of five shillings just slipped within his 
palm by the stranger, “quite the gentleman.” 

“More wine, then — stir up the fire.” 

In a few moments the visitor was ushered into the 
apartment. He was a man between fifty and sixty, but 
still aiming at the appearance of youth. His dress 


84 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


evinced military pretensions ; consisting of a blue coat, 
buttoned up to the chin, a black stock, loose trousers of 
the fashion called cossacks, and brass spurs. He wore a 
wig, of great luxuriance in curl and rich auburn in hue ; 
with large whiskers of the same color, slightly tinged 
with grey at the roots. By the imperfect light of the 
room, it was not perceptible that the clothes were some- 
what threadbare, and that the boots, cracked at the side, 
admitted glimpses of no very white hosiery within. , Mr. 
Beaufort, reluctantly rising from his repose and gladly 
sinking back to it, motioned to a chair, and put on a 
doleful and doubtful semi-smile of welcome. The servant 
placed the wine and glasses before the stranger ; — the 
host and visitor were alone. 

“ So, sir,” said Mr. Beaufort, languidly, “ you are from 

shire ; I suppose about the canal, — may I offer you 

a glass of wine ? ” 

“Most hauppy, sir — your health ! ” and the stranger, 
with evident satisfactiou, tossed off a bumper to so com- 
plimentary a toast. 

“About the canal ? ” repeated Mr. Beaufort. 

“ No, sir, no ! You parliament gentlemen must hauve 
a vaust deal of trouble on your haunds — very foine property 
I understaund yours is, sir. Sir, allow me to drink the 
health of your good lady ! ” 

“I thank you, Mr. — , Mr. — , what did you say your 
name was ? — I beg you a thousand pardons.” 

“No offaunce in the least, sir; no ceremony with me 
— this is perticler good mederia I ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


85 


“ May I ask how I can serve yon ? ” said Mr. Beaufort, 
struggling between the sense of annoyance and the fear to 
be uncivil. ‘‘And pray, had I the honor of your vote in 
the last election ? ” 

“ No, sir, no ! It’s mauny years since I have been i*d 
your part of the world, though I was born there 

“ Then I don’t exactly see ” began Mr. Beaufort, 

and stopped with dignity. 

“ Why I call on you,” put in the stranger, tapping his 
boots with his cane ; and then recognising the rents, he 
thrust both feet under the table. 

“ I don’t say that ; but at this hour I am seldom at 
leisure — not but what I am always at the service of a con- 

stiuent, that is, a voter / Mr. , I beg your pardon, I 

did not catch your name.” 

“ Sir,” said the stranger, helping himself to a third 
glass of wine; “here’s a health to your young folk 1 
And now to business.” Here the visitor, drawing his 
chair nearer to his host, assuming a more grave aspect, 
and dropping something of his stilted pronunciation, 
continued,— “You had a brother?” 

“ Well, sir ? ” said Mr. Beaufort, with a very changed 
countenance. 

“And that brother had a wife I ” 

Had a cannon gone off in the ear of Mr. Beaufort, it 
could not have shocked or stunned him more than that 
simple word with which his companion closed his sentence, 
lie fell back in his chair — his lips 'apart, his eyes fixed on 
II. — 8 


86 NIG HT AND MORN IN G. 

the stranger. He sought to speak, but his tongue clove 
to his mouth. 

“ That wife had two sons, born in wedlock ! ” 

“It is false!” cried Mr. Beaufort, finding a voice at 
length, and springing to his feet. “ And who are you, 
sir ? — and what do you mean by ” 

“ Hush ! ” said the stranger, perfectly unconcerned, and 
regaining the dignity of his haw-haw enunciation : 
“ better not let the servants hear aunything. For my 
pawt, I think servants hauve the longest pair of ears of 
auny persons, not excepting jauckasses ; their ears stretch 
from the pauntry to the parlor. Hush, sir ! — perticler 
good mederia, this ! ” 

“ Sir ! ” said Mr. Beaufort, struggling to preserve, or 
rather recover, his temper, “ your conduct is exceedingly 
strange : but allow me to say, that you are wholly misin- 
formed. My brother never did marry ; and if you have 
anything to say on behalf of those young men — his 
natural sons — I refer you to my solicitor, Mr. Blackwell, 
of Lincoln’s Inn. I wish you a good evening.” 

“ Sir ! — the same to you — I won’t trouble you auny 
farther ; it was only out of koindness I called — I am not 
used to be treated so — sir, I am in his maujesty’s service 
air, you will foind that the witness of the marriage is forth- 
coming; you will think of me then, and, perhaps, be 
sorry. But I’ve done, — ‘Your most obedient humble, 
sir ! ’ ” And the stranger, with a flourish of his hand, turned 
to the door. 

At the sight of this determination on the part of his 


I 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 81 

strange guest, a cold, uneasy, vague presentiment seized 
Mr. Beaufort. There, not flashed, but rather froze, across 
him the recollection of his brother’s emphatic but disbe- 
lieved assurances — of Catherine’s obstinate assertion of 
her sons’ alleged rights — rights which her lawsuit, under- 
taken on her own behalf, had not compromised ; — a fresh 
lawsuit might be instituted by the son, and the evidence 
which had been wanting in the former suit might be found 
at last. With this remembrance and these reflections 
came a horrible train of shadowy fears, — witnesses, verdict, 
surrender, spoliation — arrears — ruin 1 

The man, who had gained the door, turned back and 
looked at him with a complacent, half-triumphant leer 
upon his impudent, reckless face. 

“ Sir,” then said Mr. Beaufort, mildly, “ I repeat that 
you had better see Mr. Blackwell.” 

The tempter saw his .triumph. “ I have a secret to 
communicate, which it is best for you to keep snug. How 
mauny people do you wish me to see about it ? Come, 
sir, there is no need of a lawyer ; or, if you think so, tell 
him yourself. Now or never, Mr. Beaufort.” 

“ I can have no objection to hear anything you have to 
say, sir,” said the rich man, yet more mildly than before ; 
and then added, with a forced smile, “ though my rights 
are already too confirmed to admit of a doubt.” 

Without heeding the last assertion, the stranger coolly 
walked back, resumed his seat, and, placing both arms on 
the table and looking Mr. Beaufort full in the face, thus 
proceeded, — 


88 


* 


NIGHT AND MORNTNG. 

“ Sir, of the marriage between Philip Beaufort and 
Catherine Morton there were two witnesses : the one is 
dead, the other went abroad — the last is alive still ! ” 

“ If so,” said Mr. Beaufort, who, not naturally deficient 
in cunning and sense, felt, every faculty now prodigiously 
sharpened, and was resolved to know the precise grounds 
for alarm, — “if so, why did not the man — it was a 
servant, sir, a man-servant, whom Mrs. Morton pretended 
to rely on — appear on the trial ? ” 

“ Because, I say, he was abroad and could not be found ; 
or, the search after him miscaurried, from clumsy manage- 
ment and a lack of the rhino.” 

“ Hum ! ” said Mr. Beaufort — “ one witness — one 
witness, observe, there is only one 1 — does not alarm me 
much. It is not what a man deposes, it is what a jury 
believe, sir ! Moreover, what has become of the young 
men ? — They have never been heard of for years. They 
are probably dead ; if so, I am heir-at-law.” 

“ I know where one of them is to be found, at all 
events. ” 

“ The elder ? — Philip ? ” asked Mr. Beaufort, anxiously, 
and with a fearful remembrance of the energetic and 
vehement character prematurely exhibited, by his nephew. 

“Pawdon me ! I need not aunswer that question.” 

“ Sir 1 a lawsuit of this nature, against one in posses- 
sion, is very doubtful, and,” added the rich man drawing 
himself up — “ and, perhaps, very expensive ! ” 

“ The young man I speak of does not want friends, who 
will not grudge the money.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


89 


“ Sir ! ” said Mr. Beaufort, rising and placing his back 
to the fire — “sir 1 what is your object in this communi- 
cation ? Do you come, on the part of the young man, to 
propose a compromise ? — If so, be plain ! ” 

“ I come on my own part. It rests with you to say if 
the young men shall never know it ! ” 

“ And what do you want ? ” 

“ Five hundred a-year as long as the secret is kept.” 

“ And how can you prove that there is a secret, after 
all?” 

“By producing the witness, if you wish.” 

“ Will he go halves in the 500Z. a-year ? ” asked Mr. 
Beaufort, artfully. 

“ That is moy affair, sir,” replied the stranger. 

“What you say,” resumed Mr. Beaufort, “is so extra- 
ordinary — so unexpected, and still to me, seems so im- 
probable, that I must have time to consider. If you will 
call on me in a week, and produce your facts, I will give 
you my answer. I am not the man, sir, to wish to keep 
any one out of his true rights, but I will not yield, on the 
v other hand, to imposture.” 

“ If you don’t want to keep them out of their rights, 
I’d best go and tell my young gentlemen.” said the 
atranger, with cool impudence. 

“ I tell you I must have time,” repeated Beaufort, dis- 
concerted. “ Besides, I have not myself alone to look to, 
sir,” he added, with dignified emphasis — “ I am a father I’ 

“ This day week I will call on you again. Good even- 
8 * 


90 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


ing, Mr. Beaufort ! ” An<i the man stretched out his 
hand with an air of amicable condescension. 

The respectable Mr. Beaufort changed color, hesitated, 
and finally suffered two fingers to be enticed into the 
grasp of the visitor, whom he ardently wished at that 
bourne whence no visitor returns. 

The stranger smiled, stalked to the door, laid his finger 
on his lip, winked knowingly, and vanished, leaving Mr. 
Beaufort a prey to such feelings of uneasiness, dread and 
terror, as may be experienced by a man whom* on some 
inch or two of slippery rock, the tides have suddenly sur- 
rounded. 

He remained perfectly still for some momenta, and then 
glancing round the dim and spacious room, his eyes took 
in all the evidences of luxury and wealth which it be- 
trayed. Above the huge sideboard, that on festive days 
groaned beneath the hoarded weight of the silver heir- 
looms of the Beauforts, hung, in its gilded frame, a large 
picture of the family seat, with the stately porticoes — 
the noble park — the groups of deer; and around the 
wall, interspersed here and there with ancestral portraits 
of knight and dame, long since gathered to their rest, 
were placed the masterpieces of Italian and Flemish art, 
which generation after generation had slowly accumulated, 
till the Beaufort Collection had become the theme of 
connoisseurs and the study of young genius. 

**• % 

The still room, the dumb pictures — even the heavy 
sideboard, seemed to gain voice, and speak to him audi- 
bly. He thrust his hand into the folds of his waistcoat, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 91 

and griped his own flesh convulsively ; then, striding to 
and fro the apartment, he endeavored to re-collect his 
thoughts. 

“ I dare not consult Mrs. Beaufort,” he muttered £ “ no 
— no, — she is a fool! Besides she’s not in the way. 
Ro time to lose — I will go to Lilburne.” 

Scarce had that thought crossed him than he hastened 
to put it into execution. He rang for his hat and gloves, 
and sallied out on foot to Lord Lilburne’s house in Park 
Lane, — the distance was short, and impatience has long 
strides. 

He knew Lord Lilburne was in town, for that person- 
age loved London for its own sake ; and even in Septem- 
ber he would have said with the old Duke of Queensbury, 
when some one observed that London was very empty— 
“Yes ; but it is fuller than the country.” 

Mr. Beaufort found Lord Lilburne reclined on a sofa, 
by the open window of his drawing-room, beyond which 
the early stars shone upon the glimmering trees and 
silver turf of the deserted park. Unlike the simple des- 
sert 6f his respectable brother-in-law, the costliest fruits, 
the richest wines of France, graced the small table placed 
beside his sofa; and as the starch man of forms and 
method entered the room at one door, a rustling silk, that 
vanished through the aperture of another, seemed to be- 
tray tokens of a tete-a-tete, probably more agreeable to 
Lilburne than the one with which only our narrative is 
concerned. 

It would have been a curious study for such men as 
2f 


92 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


love to gaze upon the dark and wily features of human 
character, to have watched the contrast between the 
reciter and the listener, as Beaufort, with much circum- 
locution, much affected disdain, and real anxiety, narrated 
the singular and ominous conversation between himself 
and his visitor. 

The servant, in introducing Mr. Beaufort, had added to 
the light of the room ; and the candles shone full on the 
face and form of Mr. Beaufort. All about that gentleman 
was so completely in unison with the world’s forms and 
seemings, that there was something moral in the very 
sight of him ! Since his accession of fortune, he had 
grown less pale and less thin ; the angles in his figure 
were filled up. On his brow there was no trace of 
younger passion. No able vice had ever sharpened the 
expression — no exhausting vice ever deepened the lines. 
He was the beau ideal of a county member, — so sleek, 
so staid, so business-like ; yet so clean, so neat, so much 
the gentleman. And now there was a kind of pathos in 
his grey hairs, his nervous smile, his agitated hands, his 
quick and uneasy transition of posture, the tremble of his 
voice. He would have appeared to those who saw, but 
heard not, The Good Man in Trouble. Cold, motionless, 
speechless, seemingly apathetic, but in truth observant, 
still recjined on the sofa, his head thrown back, but one 
eye fixed on his companion, his hands clasped before him, 
Lord Lilburne listened ; and in that repose, about his 
face, even about his person, might be read the history of 
how different a life and character ! What native acute- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


93 


ness in the stealthy eye ! What hardened resolve in the 
full nostril and firm lips ! What sardonic contempt foi 
all things in the intricate lines about the mouth ! What 
animal enjoyment of all things so despised in that delicate 
nervous system, which, combined with original vigor of 
constitution, yet betrayed itself in the veins on the hands 
and temples, the occasional quiver of the upper lip 1 His 
was the frame above all others the most alive to pleasure 

— deep-chested, compact, sinewy, but thin to leanness — 
delicate in its texture and extremities, almost to effemi- 
nacy. The indifference of the posture, the very habit of 
the dress — not slovenly, indeed, but easy, loose, careless 

— seemed to speak of the man’s manner of thought and 
life — his profound disdain of externals. 

Not till Beaufort had concluded did Lord Lilburne 
change his position or open his lips ; and then, turning to 
his brother-in-law his calm face, he said drily, — 

“I always thought your brother had married that 
woman ; he was the sort of man to do it. Besides, why 
should she have gone to law without a vestige of proof, 
unless she was convinced of her rights ? Imposture never 
proceeds without some evidence. Innocence, like i fool, 
as it is, fancies it has only to speak to be believed But 
there is no cause for alarm.” 

“No cause ! — And yet you think there was a marriage.” 

“It is quite clear,” continued Lilburne, without heed- 
ing this interruption, “that the man, whatever his evi- 
dence, had not got sufficient proofs. If he had, he would 
go to the young men rather than to you : it is evident that 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


»4 

they would promise infinitely larger rewards than he could 
expect from yourself. Men are always more generous 
with what they expect than with what they have. All 
rogues know this. ’Tis the way Jews and usurers thrive 
upon heirs rather than possessors ; ’tis the philosophy of 
post-obits. I dare say the man has found out the real 
witness of the marriage, but ascertained also, that the 
testimony of that witness would not suffice to dispossess 
you. He might be discredited — rich men have a way 
sometimes of discrediting poor witnesses. Mind, he says 
nothing of the lost copy of the register, whatever may be 
the value of that document, which I am not lawyer enough 
to say — of any letters of your brother avowing the mar- 
riage. Consider, the register itself is destroyed — the 
clergyman dead. Pooh ! make yourself easy.” 

“ True,” said Mr. Beaufort, much comforted ; “ what a 
memory you have ! ” 

“ Naturally. Your wife is my sister — I hate poor re- 
lations — and I was therefore much interested in your 
accession and your lawsuit. No — you may feel at rest 
on this matter, so far as a successful lawsuit is concerned. 
The next question is, Will you have a lawsuit at all ? and 
is it worth while buying this fellow ? That I can’t say 
unless I see him myself.” 

“I wish to Heaven you would!” 

“ Very willingly : ’tis a sort of thing I like — I’m fond 
of dealing with rogues — it amuses me. This day week ? 
I’ll be at your house — your proxy ; I shall do better than 
Blackwell. And since you say you are wanted at the 
Lakes, go down, and leave all to me.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


9 * 

“ A thousand thanks. I can’t say how grateful I am. 
You certainly are the kindest and cleverest person in the 
world.” 

“ You can’t think worse of the world’s cleverness and 
kindness than I do,” was Lilburne’s rather ambiguous 
answer to the compliment. “ But why does my sister 
want to see you ? ” 

“Oh, I forgot! — here is her letter. I was going to 
ask your advice in this too.” 

Lord Lilburne took the letter, and glanced over it with 
the rapid eye of a man accustomed to seize in everything 
the main gist and pith. 

“ An offer to my pretty niece — Mr. Spencer — requires 
no fortune — his uncle will settle all his own — (poor sillj 
old man !) All ! Why that’s only 1000Z. a-year. You 
don’t think much of this, eh ? How my sister can even 
ask you about it puzzles me.” 

“Why you see, Lilburne,” said Mr. Beaufort, rather 
embarrassed, “there is no question of fortune — nothing 
to go out of the family ; and, really, Arthur is so expen- 
sive ; and, if she were to marry well, I could not give her 
less than fifteen or twenty thousand pounds.” 

“ Aha ! — I see — every man to his taste : here a 
daughter — there a dowry. You are devilish fond of 
money, Beaufort. Any pleasure in avarice, — eh ? ” 

Mr. Beaufort colored very much at the remark an^ the 
question, and forcing a smile, said, — 

“You are severe. But you don’t know what it is to 
be father to a young man.” 


/ 


06 NIGHT AND MOANING. 

“ Then a great many young women have told me sad 
fibs ! But you are right in your sense of the phrase. 
No, I never had an heir apparent, thank Heaven ! No 
children imposed upon me by law — natural enemies, to 
count the years between the bells that ring for their ma- 
jority, and those that will toll for my decease. It is 
enough for me that I have a brother and a sister — that 
my brother’s son will inherit my estates — and that, in 
the 'mean time, he grudges me every tick in that clock. 
What then ? If he had been my uncle, I had done the 
same. Meanwhile, I see as little of him as good-breeding 
will permit. On the face of a rich man’s heir is written 
the rich man’s memento moril But revenons & nos 
moutons. Yes, if you give your daughter no fortune, 
your death will be so much the more profitable to Arthur !” 

“ Really, you take such a very odd view of the matter,” 
said Mr. Beaufort, exceedingly shocked. “ But I see you 
don’t like the marriage ; perhaps you are right.” 

“Indeed, I have no choice in the matter; I never 
interfere between father and children. If I had children 
myself, I will, however, tell you, for your comfort, that 
they might marry exactly as they pleased— I would never 
thwart them. I should be too happy to get them out of 
my way. If they married well, one would have all the 
credit ; if ill, one would have an excuse to disown them 
As ^ said before, I dislike poor relations. Though il 
Camilla lives at the Lakes when she is married, it is but 
a letter now and then ; and that’s your wife’s trouble, 
not yours. But. Spencer — what Spencer ! — what family ? 


NIGHT AND MORNING 97 

Was there not a Mr. Spencer who lived at Winander* 
mere — who ” 

“Who went with us in search of these boys, to be 
sure. Yery likely the same — nay, he must be so. I 
thought so at the first.” 

“Go down to the Lakes to-morrow. You may hear 
something about your nephews ; 77 at that word Mr. Beau- 
fort winced. “ ’T-is well to be forearmed.” 

“Many thanks for all your counsel,” said Beaufort, 
rising, and glad to escape ; for though both he and his 
wife held the advice of Lord Lilburnei in the highest 
reverence, they always smarted beneath the quiet and 
careless stings which accompanied the honey. Lord 
Lilburne was singular in this, — he would give to any 
one who asked it, but especially a relation, the best advice 
in his power ; and none gave better, that is, more worldly 
advice. Thus, without the least benevolence, he was 
often of the greatest service ; but he could not help mix- 
ing up the draught with as much aloes and bitter-apple 
as possible. His intellect delighted in exhibiting itself 
even gratuitously. His heart equally delighted in that 
only cruelty which polished life leaves to its tyrants to- 
wards their equals, — thrusting pins into the feelings, and 
breaking self-love upon the wheel. But just as Mr. 
Beaufort had drawn on his gloves and gained the door- 
way, a thought seemed to strike Lord Lilburne 

“By the by,” he said, “you understand that when I 
promised I would try and settle the matter for you, I only 
meant that I would learn the exact causes you have for 

II. --9 G 


98 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


alarm on the one hand, or for a compromise with this 
fellow on the other. If the last be advisable, you are aware 
that I cannot interfere. I might get into a scrape ; and 
Beaufort Court is not my property.” 

“I don’t quite understand you.” 

“ I am plain enough, too. If there is money to be 
given, it is given in order to defeat what is called justice 
— to keep these nephews of yours out of their inheritance. 
Now, should this ever come to light, it would have an ugly 
appearance. They who risk the blame must be persons 
who possess the estate.” 

“If you think it dishonorable or disnonest ” said 

Beaufort, irresolutely. 

“Ill never can advise as to the feelings; I can only 
advise as to the policy. If you don’t think there ever was 
a marriage, it may, still, be honest in you to prevent the 
bore of a lawsuit.” 

“ But if he can prove to me that they were married ? ” 

“ Pooh ! ” said Lilburne, raising his eyebrows with a 
slight expression of contemptuous impatience ; “ it rests 
on yourself whether or not he prove it to your satisfac- 
tion! Por my part, as a third person, I am persuaded 
the marriage did take place. But if I had Beaufort 
Court, my convictions would be all the other way. You 
understand. I am too happy to serve you. But no man 
can be expected to jeopardise his character, or coquet 
with the law, unless it be for his own individual interest. 
Then, of course, he must judge for himself. Adieu ! I 
expect some friends — foreigners — Carlists — to whist. 
You won’t join them ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


99 


“ I never play, you know. You will write to me at 
Winandermere : and, at all events, you will keep off the 
man till I return ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

Beaufort, whom the latter part of the conversation had 
comforted far less than the former, hesitated, and turned 
the door-handle three or four times ; but, glancing towards 
his brother-in-law, he saw in that cold face so little 
sympathy in the struggle between interest and conscience, 
that he judged it best to withdraw at once. 

As soon as he was gone, Lilburne summoned his valet, 
who had lived with him many years, and who was his con- 
fidant in all the adventurous gallantries with which he 
still enlivened the autumn of his life. 

“ Dykeman,” said he, “ you have let out that lady ?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“ I am not at home if she calls again. She is stupid ; 
she cannot get the girl to come to her again. I shall 
trust you with an adventure, Dykeman — an adventure 
that will remind you of our young days, man. This 
charming creature — I tell you she is irresistible — her 
very oddities bewitch me. You must — well, you look 
uneasy. What would you say ? ” 

“My lord, I have found out more about ner — and — 
and - ” 

“Well, well.” 

The valet drew near, and whispered something in his 
master’s ear. 

“ They are idiots who say it, then,” answered Lilburne. 


100 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ And,” faltered the man, with the shame of humanity 
on his face, “she is not worthy your lordship’s notice — 
a poor ” 

“ Yes, I know she is poor ; and, for that reason, there 
can be no difficulty, if the thing is properly managed. You 
never, perhaps, heard of a certain Philip, king of Macedon ; 
but I will tell you what he once said, as well as 1 can 
remember it : ‘ Lead an ass with a pannier of gold ; send 
the ass through the gates of a city, and all the sentinels 
will run away.’ Poor! — where there is love, there is 
charity also, Dykeman. Besides ” 

Here Lilburne’s countenance assumed a sudden aspect 
of dark and angry passion, — he broke off abruptly, rose, 
and paced the room, muttering to himself. Suddenly he 
stopped, and put his hand to his hip, as an expression of 
pain again altered the character of his face. 

“ The limb pains me still 1 Dykeman — I was scarce 
— twenty-one — when I became a cripple for life.” He 
paused, drew a long breath, smiled, rubbed his hands 
gently, and added : “ Never fear — you shall be the ass ; 
and thus Philip of Macedon begins to fill the pannier.” 
And he tossed his purse into the hands of the valet, 
whose face seemed to lose its anxious embarrasment at 
the touch of the gold. Lilburne glanced at him with a 
quiet sneer: “ Go ! — I will give you my orders when I 
undress.” 

“Yes!” he repeated to himself, “the limb pains me 
Hill. But he died ! — shot as a man would shoot a jay 
or a polecat ! I have the newspaper still in that drawer 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


101 


He died an outcast — a felon — a murderer! And 1 
blasted his name — and I seduced his mistress — and I — - 
am John Lord Lilburne ! ” 

About ten o’clock, some half-a-dozen of those gay lovers 
of London, who, like Lilburne, remain faithful to its charms 
when more vulgar worshippers desert its sunburnt streets 
— mostly single men — mostly men of middle age — 
dropped in. And soon after came three or four high- 
* born foreigners, who had followed into England the exile 
of the unfortunate Charles X. Their looks, at once proud 
and sad — their moustaches curled downward — their 
beards permitted to grow — made at first a st *ong con- 
trast with the smooth gay Englishmen. But Lilburne, 
who was fond of French society, and who, when he pleased, 
could be courteous hnd agreeable, soon placed the exiles at 
their ease ; and, in the excitement of high play, all differ- 
ences of mood and humor speedily vanished. Morning 
was in the skies before they sat down to supper. 

“You have been very fortunate to-night, milord,” said 
one of the Frenchmen, with an envious tone of congratula- 
tion. 

“But, indeed,” said another, who, having been several 
times his host’s partner, had won largely, “ you are the 
finest player, milord, I ever encountered.” 

“ Always excepting Monsieur Deschapelles and * * * 
replied Lilburne, indifferently. And, turning the con- 
versation, he asked one of the guests why he had not in- 
troduced him to a French officer of merit and distinction ; 
‘ With whom,” said Lord Lilburne, “ I understand that 
9 * 


102 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


you are intimate, and of whom I hear your countrymen 
very often speak.” 

“You mean De Yaudemont. Poor fellow L” said a 
middle-aged Frenchman, of a graver appearance than 
the rest. 

“ But why ‘poor fellow,’ Monsieur de Liancourt?” 

“ He was rising so high before the revolution. There 
was not a braver officer in the army. But he is but a 
soldier of fortune, and his career is closed.” 

“ Till the Bourbons return,” said another Carlist, plac- 
ing with his moustache. 

“ You will really honor me much by introducing me to 
him.” said Lord Lilburne. “ De Yaudemont — it is a 
good name, — perhaps, too, he plays at whist.” 

“ But,” observed one of the Frenchmen, “ I am by no 
means sure that he has the best right in the world to the 
name. ’Tis a strange story.” 

“ May I hear it ? ” asked the host 

“ Certainly. It is briefly this : — There was an old 
Yieomte de Yaudemont about Paris; of good birth, but 
extremely poor — a mauvais suget. He had already had 
two wives, and run through their fortunes. Being old 
and ugly, and men who survive two wives having a bad 
reputation among marriageable ladies at Paris, he found 
it difficult to get a third. Despairing of the noblesse , he 
went among the bourgeoisie with that hope. His family 
were kept in perpetual fear of a ridiculous mesalliance. 
Among these relations was Madame de Merville, whom 
you may have heard of.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


103 


“ Madame de Merville ! Ah, yes ! Handsome, was 
she not ? ” 

“ It is true. Madame de Merville, whose failing was 
pride, was known more than once to have bought off the 
matrimonial inclinations of the amorous vicomte. Sud- 
denly there appeared in her circles a very handsome 
young man. He was presented formally to her friends as 
the son of the Yicomte de Yaudemont by his second mar- 
riage with an English lady, brought up in England, and 
now for the first time publicly acknowledged. Some scan- 
dal was circulated ” 

“ Sir,” interrupted Monsieur de Liancourt, very gravely, 
“ the scandal was such as all honorable men must stigma- 
tise and despise — it was only to be traced to some lying 
lackey — a scandal that the young man was already the 
lover of a woman of stainless reputation the very first 
day that he entered Paris ! I answer for the falsity of 
that report. But that report I own was one that decided 
not only Madame de Merville, who was a sensitive — too 
sensitive a person, but my friend young Yaudemont, to a 
marriage, from the pecuniary advantages of which he was 
too high-spirited not to shrink.” 

“ Well,” said Lord Lilburne, “ then this young de Yau- 
demont married Madame de Merville?” 

a No,” said Liancourt, somewhat sadly, “ it was not so 
decreed ; for Yaudemont, with a feeling which belongs to 
a gentleman, and which I honor, while deeply and grate- 
fully attached to Madame de Merville, desired that he 
might first win for himself some honorable distinction 


104 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


before he claimed a hand to which men of fortunes so 
much higher had aspired in vain. “ I am not ashamed,” 
he added, after a slight pause, “ to say that I had been 
one of the rejected suitors, and that I still revere the 
memory, of Eugenie de Merville. The young man, there- 
fore, was to have entered my regiment. Before, however, 
he had joined it, and while yet in the full flush of a young 
man’s love for a woman formed to excite the strongest 

attachment, she — she ” The Frenchman’s voice 

trembled, and he resumed with affected composure,— 
“ Madame de Merville, who had the best and kindest 
heart that ever beat in a human breast, learned one day 
that there was a poor widow in the garret of the hotel 
she inhabited who was dangerously ill — without medicine 
and without food — having lost her only friend and sup- 
porter in her husband some time before. In the impulse 
of the moment, Madame de Merville herself attended this 
widow — caught the fever that preyed upon her — was 
confined to her bed ten days — and died, as she had lived, 
in serving others and forgetting self. — And so much, sir, 
for the scandal you spoke of ! ” 

“A warning,” observed Lord Lilburne, “ against trifling 
with one’s health by that vanity of parading a kind heart, 
which is called charity. If charity, mon cher, begins at 
h >me, it is in the drawing-room, not the garret I” 

The Frenchman looked at his host in some disdain, bit 
his lip, and was silent. 

“ But still,” resumed Lord Lilburne, “ still it is so pro- 
bable that your old vicomte had a son ; and I can so per- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


105 


fectly understand why he did not wish to be embarrassed 
with him as long as he could help it, that I do not under- 
stand why there should be any doubt of the younger de 
Vaudemont’s parentage.” 

“Because,” said the Frenchman, who had first com- 
menced the narrative, — “because the young man refused 
to take the legal steps to proclaim his birth and naturalize 
himself a Frenchman ; because, no sooner was Madame 
de Merville dead, than he forsook the father he had so 

newly discovered — forsook France, and entered with some 

• ^ 

other officers, under the brave * * * *, in the service of 
one of the native princes of India.” 

“But, perhaps he was poor,” observed Lord Lilburne. 
“A father is a very good thing, and a country is a very 
good thing, but still a man must have money ; and if your 
father does not do much for you, somehow or other, your 
country generally follows his example.” 

“ My lord,” said Liancourt, “ my friend here has for- 
gotten to say that Madame de Merville had by deed of 
gift (though unknown to her lover) before her death, 
made over to young Vaudemont the bulk of her fortune ; 
and that, when he was informed of this donation, after 
her decease, and sufficiently recovered from the stupor 
of his grief, he summoned her relations round him, de- 
clared that her memory was too dear to him for wealth to 
console him for her loss, and reserving to himself but a 
modest and bare sufficiency for the common necessaries 
of a gentleman, he - divided the rest amongst them, and 
repaired to the East ; not only to conquer his sorrow bj 
9 * 


106 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the novelty and stir of an exciting life, but to carve out 
with his own hand the reputation of an honorable and 
brave man. My friend remembered the scandal long 
buried — he forgot the generous action.” 

“Your friend, you see, my dear Monsieur de Lian- 
court,” remarked Lilburne, “ is more a man of the world 
than you are ! ” 

“And I was just going to observe,” said the friend thus 
referred to, “ that that very action seemed to confirm the 
rumor that there had been some little manoeuvring as to 
this unexpected addition to the name of de Yaudemont; 
for, if himself related to Madame de Merville, why have 
such scruples to receive her gift ? ” 

“A very shrewd remark,” said Lord Lilburne, looking 
with some respect at the speaker ; “ and I own that it is 
a very unaccountable proceeding, and one of which I 
don’t think you or I would ever have been guilty. Well, 
and the old vicomte ? ” 

“ Did not live long ! ” said the Frenchman, evidently 
gratified by his host’s compliment, while Liancourt threw 
himself back in his chair in grave displeasure. “ The 
young man remained some years in India, and when he 
returned to Paris, our friend here, Monsieur de Liancourt 
(then in favor with Charles X.) and Madame de Merville’s 
relations took him up. He had already acquired a repu- 
tation in this foreign service, and he obtained a place at 
the court, and a commission in the king’s guards. I allow 
that he would certainly have made a career had it not 
been for the Three Days. As it is, you see him in Lon* 
don, like the rest of us, in exile 1 ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


m 


“And I suppose, without a sow.” 

“•No, I believe that he had still saved, and even 
augmented in India, the portion he allotted to himself 
from Madame de Merville’s bequest.” 

“And if he don’t play whist, he ought to play it,” 
said Lilburne. “You have roused my curiosity; I hope 
you will let me make his acquaintance, Monsieur de 
Liancourt. I am no politician, but allow me to propose 
this toast — 1 Success to those who have the wit to plan, 
and the strength to execute.’ In other words, ‘the Right 
Divine 1 ’ ” 

Soon afterwards the guests retired. 


CHAPTER 17 

“ Ros. Happily, he’s the second time come to them.” — Hamlet. 

It was the evening after that in which the conversations 
recorded in our last chapter, were held; — evening in 

the quiet suburb of H . The desertion and silence 

of the metropolis in September had extended to its 
neighboring hamlets; — a village in the heart of the 
country could scarcely have seemed more still ; the lamps 
were lighted, many of the shops already closed, a few of 
the sober couples and retired spinsters of the place might, 
nere and there, be seen slowly wandering homeward after 
their evening walk ; two or three dogs, in spite of the 
prohibitions of the magistrates placarded on the walls — 
2g 


108 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


(manifestoes which threatened with death the dogs, and 
predicted more than ordinary madness to the public,) — 
were playing in the main road, disturbed from time to 
time as the slow coach, plying between the city and the 
suburb, crawled along the thoroughfare, or as the brisk 
mails whirled rapidly by, announced by the cloudy dust 
and the guard’s lively horn. Gradually, even these evi- 
dences of life ceased — the saunterers disappeared, the 
mails had passed, the dogs gave place to the later and 
more stealthy perambulations of their feline successors 
“who love the moon.” At unfrequent intervals, the 
more important shops — the linen-drapers’, the chemists’, 
and the gin-palace — still poured out, across the shadowy 
road, their streams of light, from windows yet unclosed : 
but, with these exceptions, the business of the place stood 
still. 

At this time there emerged from a milliner’s house 
(shop, to outward appearance, it was not, evincing its 
gentility and its degree above the Capelocracy, to use a 
certain classical nelogisin, by a brass plate on an oak 
door, whereon was graven — “ Miss Semper, Milliner and 
Dressmaker, from Madame Devy”), at this time., I say, 
and from this house, there emerged the light and graceful 
form of a young female. She had in her left hand a 
little basket, of the contents of which (for it was empty) 
she had apparently just disposed ; and, as she stepped 
across the road, the lamp-light fell on a face in the first 
bloom of youth, and characterized by an expression of 
child-like innocence and candor. It was a face regularly 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


109 


and exquisitely lovely, yet something there was in the 
aspect that saddened you ; you knew not why, for it was 
not sad itself ; on the contrary, the lips smiled and the 
eyes sparkled. As she now glided along the shadowy 
street with a light, quick step, a man, who had hitherto 
been concealed by the portico of an attorney’s house, 
advanced stealthily, and followed her at a little distance. 
Unconscious that she was dogged, and seemingly fearless 
of all danger, the girl went lightly on, swinging her 
basket playfully to and fro, and chaunting, in a low but 
musical tone, some verses, that seemed rather to belong 
to the nursery than to that age which the fair singer had 
attained. 

As she came to an angle which the main street formed 
with a lane, narrow and partially lighted, a policeman, 
stationed there, looked hard at her, and then touched his 
hat with an air of respect, in which there seemed also a 
little of compassion. 

“ Good night to you,” said the girl, passing him, and 
with a frank, gay tone. 

“ Shall I attend you home, Miss ? ” said the man. 

“ What for ? I am very well ! ” answered the young 
woman, with an accent and look of innocent surprise. 

Just at this time the man, who had hitherto followed 
her, gained the spot, and turned down to lane. 

“ Yes,” replied the policeman ; “but it is getting dark, 
Miss.” 

“ So it is every night when I walk home, unless there’s 
a moon. — Good by. — The moon,” she repeal t* her- 
II. — 10 


110 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


self, as she walked on, “ I used to be afraid of the moon 
when I was a little child ; ” and then, after a pause, she 
murmured, in a low chaunt, — 

“ The moon, she is a wandering ghost, 

That walks in penance nightly. 

How sad she is, that wandering moon, 

For all she shines so brightly ! 

I watched her eyes when I was young, 

Until they turned my brain, 

And now I often weep to think 
’T will ne’er be right again.” 

As the murmur of these words died at distance down 
the lane in which the girl had disappeared, the police- 
man, who had paused to listen, shook his head mourn- 
fully, and said, while he moved on, — 

“ Poor thing ! they should not let her always go about 
by herself ; and yet, who would harm her ? ” 

Meanwhile the girl proceeded along the lane, which 
was skirted by small, but not mean houses, till it termi- 
nated in a cross-stile, that admitted into a church-yard. 
Here hung the last lamp in the path, and a few dim stars 
broke palely over the long grass and scattered grave- 
stones, without piercing the deep shadow which the 
church threw over a large portion of the sacred ground. 
Just as she passed the stile, the man, whom we have 
before noticed, and who had been leaning, as if waiting 
for some one, against the pales, approached, and said 
gently, — 

“Ah, Miss ! it is a loue place for one so beautiful as 
you are to be alone. You ought never to be on foot.** 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Ill 


The girl stopped, and looked full, but without any 
alarm in her eyes, into the mail’s face. 

“ Go away ! ” she said, with a half peevish, half kindly 
tone of command. “I don’t know you.” 

“But I have been sent to speak to you by one who 
does know you, Miss — one who loves you to distraction 
— he has seen you before at Mrs. West’s. He is so 
grieved to think you should walk — you, who ought, he 
says, to have every luxury — that he has sent his carriage 
for you. It is on the other side of the yard. Do come 
now ; ” and he laid his hand, though very lightly, on her 
arm. 

“At Mrs. West’s!” she said; and, for the first time, 
her voice and look showed fear. “ Go away directly ! 
How dare you touch me ! ” 

“But, my dear Miss, you have no idea how my em- 
ployer loves you, and how rich he is. See, he has sent 
you all this money; it is gold — real gold. You may 
have what you like, if you will but come. Now, don’t 
be silly, Miss.” 

The girl made no answer, but, with a sudden spring, 
passed the man, and ran lightly and rapidly along the 
path, in an opposite direction from that to which the 
tempter had pointed, when inviting her to the carriage. 
The man, surprised, but not baffled, reached her in an 
instant, and caught hold of her dress. 

“ Stay ! you must come — you must ! ” he said, threaten- 
ingly ; and, loosening his grasp on her shawl, he threw 
his arm round her waist 


/ 


112 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Don’t ! ” cried the girl, pleadingly, and apparently 
subdued, turning her fair, soft face upon her pursuer, and 
clasping her hands. “Be quiet! Fanny is silly! No 
one is ever rude to poor Fanny ! ” 

“And no one will be rude to you, Miss,” said the man, 
apparently touched ; “ but I dare not go without you. 
You don’t know what you refuse. Come ; ” and he at 
tempted gently to draw her back. 

“ No, no ! ” said the girl, changing from supplication 
to anger, and raising her voice into a loud shriek, “ No ! 
I will 

“Nay, then,” interrupted the man, looking round 
anxiously ; and, with a quick and dexterous movement, 
he threw a large handkerchief over her face, and, as he 
held it fast to her lips with one hand, he lifted her from 
the ground. Still violently struggling, the girl contrived 
to remove the handkerchief, and once more her shriek of 
terror rang through the violated sanctuary. 

At that instant a loud deep voice was heard, “ Who 
calls ? ” And a tall figure seemed to rise, as from the 
grave itself, and emerge from the shadow of the church. 
A moment more, and a strong gripe was laid on the 
shoulder of the ravisher. “What is this? On God’s 
ground, too ! Release her, wretch ! ” 

The man, trembling, half with superstitious, half with 
bodily fear, let go his captive, who fell at once at the 
knees of her deliverer. 

“ Don’t you hurt me, too,” she said, as the tears rolled 
down her eyes. “lama good girl — and my grandfather's 
blind. ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


113 


The stranger bent down and raised her ; then looking 
round for the assailant with an eye whose dark fire shone 
through the gloom, he perceived the coward stealing off. 
He disdained to pursue. 

“ My poor child,” said he, with that voice which the 
strong assume to the weak — the man to some wounded 
infant — the voice of tender superiority and compassion, 

“ there is no cause for fear now. Be soothed. Do you 
live near ? Shall I see you home ? ” 

“ Thank you ! That’s kind. Pray do ! ” And, with 
an infantine confidence she took his hand, as a child does 
that of a grown-up person ; — so they walked on together. 

“And,” said the stranger, “do you know that man ? 
Has he insulted you before ? ” 

“ "No — don’t talk of him : ce me fait mall” And she 
put her hand to her forehead. 

The French was spoken with so French an accent, that, 
in some curiosity, the stranger cast his eye over her plain 
dress. 

“You speak French well.” 

“ Do I ? I wish I knew more words — I only recollect 
a few. When I am very happy or very sad, they come 
into my head. But I am happy now. I like your voice 
— 1 like you. — Oh ! I have dropped my basket ! ” 

“ Shall I go back for it, or shall I buy you another ? ” 
“Another! — Oh, no! come back for it. How kind 
you are ! — Ah ! I see it ! ” and she broke away and ran 
forward to pick it up. 

10 * 


H 


/ 


114 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

When she had recovered it, she laughed — she spoke to 
it — she kissed it. 

Her companion smiled as he said, — 

“ Some sweetheart has given you that basket — it seems 
but a common basket, too.” 

“I have had it — oh, ever since — since — I don’t know 
how long ! It came with me from France — it was full of 
little toys. They are gone — I am so sorry ! ’* 

“ How old are you ? ” 

“I don’t know.” 

“ My pretty one,” said the stranger, with deep pity in 
his rich voice, “ your mother should not let you go out 
alone at this hour.” 

“ Mother ! — mother ! ” repeated the girl, in a tone of 
surprise. 

“ Have you no mother ? ” 

“ No 1 — I had a father once. But he died, they say. 
I did not see him die. I sometimes cry when I think 
that I shall never, never see him again ! But,” she said, 
changing her accent from melancholy almost to joy, “ he 
is to have a grave here like the other girl’s father’s — a 
fine stone upon it — and all to be done with my money !” 

“Your money, my child?” 

“ Yes ; the money I make. I sell my work and take 
the money to my grandfather ; but I lay by a little every 
week for a grave-stone for my father.” 

“ Will the grave-stone be placed in that churchward ? ” 
They were now in auother lane ; and, as he spoke, the 
stranger checked her, and bending down to look into her 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


115 


face, he murmured to himself, “Is it possible ? --—it must 
be — it must 1 ” 

“ Yes ! I love that church-yard — my brother told me 
to put flowers there ; and grandfather and I sit there in 
the summer, without speaking. But I don’t talk much, 

I like singing better : — 

‘ ‘ All things that good and harmless are. 

Are taught, they say, to sing. — 

The maiden resting at her work, 

The bird upon the wing; 

The little ones at church, in prayer, 

ThAAngels in the sky — 

The angels less when babes are born 
Than when the aged die.’ ” 

And unconscious of the latent moral, dark o£. cheering, 
according as we estimate the value of this life, couched 
in the concluding rhyme, Fanny turned round to the 
stranger, and said, “ Why should the angels be glad when 
. the aged die ? ” 

“That they are released from a false, unjust, and 
miserable world, in which the first man was a rebel, and 
the second a murderer ! ” muttered the stranger between 
his teeth, which he gnashed as he spoke. 

The girl did not understand him ; she shook her head 
gently, and made no reply. A few moments, and she 
paused before a small house. 

“This is my home.” 

* It is so,” said her companion, examining the exterior 
of the house with an earnest gaze ; “ and your name is 
Fanny. ” 


116 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Yes — every one knows Fanny. Come in;” and 
the girl opened the door with a latch-key. 

The stranger bowed his stately height as he crossed 
the low threshold and followed his guide into a little 
parlor. 

Before a table, on which burned dimly, and with un* 
heeded wick, a single candle, sat a man of advanced age ; 
and as he turned his face to the door, the stranger saw 
that he was blind. The girl bounded to his chair, passed 
her arms round the old man’s neck, and kissed his fore- 
head ; then nestling herself at his feet, and leaning her 
clasped hands caressingly on his knee, she said, — 

“ Grandpapa, I have brought you somebody you must 
love. H§ has been so kind to Fanny.” 

“ And neither of you can remember me ! ” said the guest. 

The old man, whose dull face seemed to indicate do- 
tage, half raised himself at the sound of the stranger’s 
voice. 

“ Who is that ? ” said he, with a feeble and querulous 
voice. “Who wants me?” 

“ I am the friend of your lost son. I am he who, ten 
years ago, brought Fanny to your roof, and gave her to 
your care — your son’s last charge And you blessed 
your son, and forgave him, and vowed to be a father to 
his Fanny.” 

The old man, who had now slowly risen to his feet, 
trembled violently, and stretched out his hands. 

“Come near — near — let me put my hands on your 
head. I cannot see you ; but Fanny talks of you and 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


117 


prays for you; and Fanny — she has been an angel to 
me 1 ” 

The stranger approached and half knelt as the old man 
spread his hands over his head, muttering inaudibly. 
Meanwhile Fanny, pale as death — her lips apart — an 
eager, painful expression on her face — looked inquiringly 
on the dark, marked countenance of the visitor, and 
creeping towards him inch by inch, fearfully touched his 
dress — his arms — his countenance. 

“ Brother,” she said at last, doubtingly and timidly, — 
“ Brother, I thought I could never forget you ! But you 
are not like my brother ; you are older ; — you are — you 
are I — no! no! you are not my brother!” 

“ I am much changed, Fanny ; and you too ! ” 

He smiled as he spoke; and the smile — sweet and 
pitying — thoroughly changed the character of his face, 
which was ordinarily stern, grave, and proud. 

“ I know you now ! ” exclaimed Fanny, in a tone of 
wild joy. ° And you come back from that grave ! My 
Hewers have brought you back at last! I knew they 
would ! Brother ! Brother ! ” 

And she threw herself on his breast and burst into 
passionate tears. Then, suddenly drawing herself back, 
she laid her finger on his arm, and looked up at him 
beseechingly. 

Pray, now, is he really dead ? He, my father ! — he, 
too, was lost like you. Can’t he come back again as you 
have done ? ” 

“Do you grieve for him still, then ? Poor girl ! ” said 


118 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the stranger, evasively, and seating himself. Fanny con- 
tinued to listen for an answer to her touching question ; 
but finding that none was given, she stole away to a 
corner of the room, and leaned her face on her hands, and 
seemed to think — till at last, as she so sat, the tears be- 
gan to flow down her cheeks, and she wept, but silently 
and unnoticed. 

“But, sir,” said the guest, after a short pause, “how 
is this ? Fanny tells me she supports you by her work. 
Are you so poor, then? Yet I left you your son’s be- 
quest ; and you, too, I understood, though not rich, were 
not in want ! ” 

“ There was a curse on my gold,” said the old man 
sternly. “It was stolen from us.” 

There was another pause. Simon broke it. 

“ And you, young man, — how has it fared with you ? 
You have prospered, I hope.” 

“I am as I have been for years — alone in the world, 
without kindred and without friends. But, thanks to 
Heaven, I am not a beggar ! ” 

“ No kindred and no friends ! ” repeated the old man. 
“No father — no brother — no wife — no sister 1 ” 

“None! No one to care whether I live or die,” 
answered the stranger, with a mixture of pride and sad- 
ness in his voice “But, as the song has it — 

“I care for nobody — no, not I, 

For nobody cares for me?*” 

There was a certain pathos in the mockery with which 
he repeated the homely lines, although, as he did so, he 


> 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


119 


gathered himself up, as if conscious of a certain consola- 
tion and reliance on the resources not dependent on 
others which he had found in his own strong limbs and 
his own stout heart. 

At that moment he felt a soft touch upon his hand, 
and he saw Fanny looking, at him through the tears that 
still flowed. 

“You have no one to care for you ? Don’t say so ! 
Come and live with us, brother ; we’ll care for you I 
have never forgotten the flowers — never! Do come! 
Fanny shall love you. Fanny can work for three ! ” 

“And they call her an idiot ! ” mumbled the old man, 
with a vacant smile on his lips. 

“ My sister ! You shall be my sister ! Forlorn one — 
whom even Nature has fooled and betrayed ! Sister ! — 
we, both orphans ! — Sister ! ” exclaimed that dark, stern 
man, passionately, and with a broken voice ; and he 
opened his arms, and Fanny, without a blush or a thought 
of shame, threw herself on his breast. He kissed her 
forehead with a kiss that was, indeed, pure and holy as a 
brother’s : and Fanny felt that he had left upon her cheek 
a tear that was not her own. 

“ Well,” he said, with an altered voice, and taking the 
old man’s hand, “ What say you ? Shall I take up my 
lodging with you ? I have a little money ; I can protect 
and aid you both. I shall be often away — in London or 
elsewhere — and will not intrude too much on you. But 
you blind, and she — (here he broke off the sentence ab- 
ruptly and went on) — you should not be left alone. And 


120 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


this neighborhood, that burial-place, are dear to me. I, 

too, Fanny, have lost a parent ; and that grave ” 

He paused, and then added, in a trembling voice, “And 
you have placed flowers over that grave ? ” 

“ Stay with us,” said the blind man ; “ not for our sake, 
but your own. The world is a bad place. I have been 
long sick of the world. Yes ! come and live near the 
burial-ground — the nearer you are to the grave, the safer 
you are ; — and you have a little money, you say ! ” 

“ I will v'ome to-morrow, then. I must return now. 
To-morrow, Fanny, we shall meet again.” 

“ Must you go ? ” said Fanny, tenderly. “ But you will 
come again ; you know I used to think every one died 
when he left me. I am wiser now. Yet still, when you 
do leave me, it is true that you die for Fanny ! ” 

At this moment, as the three persons were grouped, 
^ach had assumed a posture of form, an expression of 
face, which a painter of fitting sentiment and skill would 
have loved to study. The visitor had gained the door; 
and as he stood there, his noble height — the magnificent 
strength and health of his manhood in its full prime — 
contrasted alike the almost spectral debility of extreme 
age and the graceful delicacy of Fanny — half girl, half 
child. There was something foreign in his air — and the 
half- military habit, relieved by the red riband of the 
Bourbon knighthood. His complexion was dark as that 
of a Moor, and his raven hair curled close to the stately 
head. The soldier-moustache — thick, but glossy as silk 
— shaded the firm lip ; and the pointed beard, assumed 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


121 


by the exiled Carlists, heightened the effect of the strong 
and haughty features and the expression of the martial 
countenance. 

But as Fanny’s voice died on his ear, he half averted 
that proud face ; and the dark eyes — almost Oriental in 
their brilliancy and depth of shade . — seemed soft and 
humid. And there stood Fanny, in a posture of such 
unconscious sadness — such child-like innocence ; her arms 
drooping — her face wistfully turned to his — and a half 
smile upon the lips, that made still more touching the 
tears not yet driech upon her cheeks. While thin, frail, 
shadowy, with white hair and furrowed cheeks, the old 
man fixed his sightless orbs on space ; and his face, usually 
only animated from the lethargy of advancing dotage by 
a certain querulous cynicism, now grew suddenly earnest, 
and even thoughtful, as Fanny spoke of Death ! 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ Ulyss. Time hath a wallet at his back 
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion. 

* * Perseverance, dear my lord, 

Keeps honor bright .” — Troilus and Cressida. 

I have not sought — as would have been easy, by a 
little ingenuity in the earlier portion of this narrative — 
whatever source of vulgar interest might be derived from 
the mystery of names and persons-. As in Charles 
II. —11 


122 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Spencer the reader is allowed at a glance to detect Sidney 
Morton, so in Philip de Vaudemont (the stranger who 
rescued Fanny) the reader at once recognises the- hero of 
my tale ; but, since neither of these young men has a 
better right to the name resigned than to the name 
adopted, it will be simpler and more convenient to 
designate them by those appellations by which they are 
now known to the world. In truth, Philip de Yaudemont 
was scarcely the same being as Philip Morton. In the 
short visit he had paid to the elder Gawtrey, when he 
consigned Fanny to his charge, he had given no name ; 
and the one he now took (when, towards the evening of 
the next day, he returned to Simon’s house) the old man 
heard for the first time. Once more sunk into his usual 
apathy, Simon did not express any surprise that a 
Frenchman should be so well acquainted with English — 
he scarcely observed that the name was French. Simon’s 
age seemed daily to bring him more and more to that 
state when life is mere mechanism, and the soul, preparing 
for its departure, no longer heeds the tenement that 
crumbles silently and neglected into its lonely dust. 
Yaudemont came with but little luggage, (for he had an 
apartment also in London), and no attendant, — a single 
horse was consigned to the stables of an inn at hand, and 
he seemed, as soldiers are, more careful for the comforts 
of the animal than his own. There was but one woman 
servant in the humble household, who did all the ruder 
work ; for Fanny’s industry could afford it. The solitary 
servant and the homely fare sufficed for the simple and 
hardy adventurer. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


123 


Fanny, with a countenance radiant with joy, took his* 
hand and led him to his room. Poor child ! with that 
instinct of woman which never deserted her, she had 
busied herself the whole day in striving tc deck the 
chamber according to her own notions of comfort. She 
had stolen from her little hoard wherewithal to make 
some small purchases, on which the Dowbiggin of the 
suburb had been consulted. And what with flowers on 
the table, and a fire at the hearth, the room looked 
cheerful. 

She watched him as he glanced around, and felt disap- 
pointed that he did not utter the admiration she expected. 
Angry at last with the indifference which, in fact, as to 
external accommodation, was habitual to him, she plucked 
his sleeve, and said, — 

“ Why don’t you speak ? Is it not nice ? — Fanny did 
her best.” 

“And a thousand thanks to Fanny ! It is all I could 
wish.” 

“ There is another room, bigger than this, but the 
wicked woman who robbed us slept there ; and besides, 
you said you liked the church-yard. See!” and she 
opened the window, and pointed to the church-tower 
rising dark against the evening sky. 

“This is better than all!” said Yaudemont; and ho 
looked out from the window in a silent reverie, which 
Fanny did not disturb. 

And now he was settled ! From a career so wild, 
agitated, and various, the adventurer paused in that 

2h 


124 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


humble resling-nook. But quiet is not repose — obscurity 
is not content. Often as, morn and eve, he looked forth 
upon the spot, where his mother’s heart, unconscious of 
love and woe, mouldered away, the indignant and bitter 
feelings of the wronged outcast and the son who could 
not clear the mother’s name, swept away the subdued and 
gentle melancholy into which time usually softens .regret 
for the dead, and with which most of us think of the dis- 
tant past, and the once joyous childhood ! 

In this man’s breast lay, concealed by his external 
calm, those memories and aspirations which are as strong 
as passions. In his earlier years, when he had been put 
to hard shifts for existence, he had found no leisure for 
close and brooding reflection upon that spoliation of just 
rights — that calumny upon his mother’s name, which had 
first brought the Night into his Morning. His resentment 
towards the Beauforts, it is true, had ever been an intense 
but a fitful and irregular passion. It was exactly in pro- 
portion as, by those rare and romantic incidents which 
Fiction can not invent, and which Narrative takes with 
diffidence from the great Storehouse of Real Life, his 
steps had ascended in the social ladder — that all which 
his childhood had lost — all which the robbers ofvhia 
heritage had gained, the grandeur and the power of 
wealth — above all, the hourly and the tranquil happiness 
of a stainless name, became palpable and distinct. He 
had loved Eugenie as a boy loves for the first time an 
accomplished woman. He regarded her, so refined — so 
gentle — so gifted, with the feelings due to a superior 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


125 


being, with an eternal recollection of the ministering 
angel that had shone upon him when he stood on the 
dark abyss. She was the first that had redeemed his fate 
— the first that had guided aright his path — the first that 
had tamed the savage at his breast : — it was the young 
lion charmed by the eyes of Una. The outline of his 
story had been truly given at Lord Lilburne’s. Despite 
his pride, which revolted from such obligations to 
another, and a woman — •• which disliked and struggled 
against a disguise which at once and alone saved him 
from the detection oPthe past and the terrors of the future 
— he had yielded to her, the wise and the gentle, as one 
whose judgment he could not doubt ; and, indeed, the 
slanderous falsehoods circulated by the lackey, to whose 
discretion, the night of Gawirey’s death, Eugenie had 
preferred to confide her own honor, rather than another’s 
life, had (as Liancourt rightly stated) left Philip no option 
but that which Madame de Mervllle deemed the best, 
whether for her happiuess or her good name. Then had 
followed a brief season — the holiday of his life — the 
season of young hope and passion, of brilliancy and joy, 
closing by that abrupt death which again left him lonely 
in the world. 

When, from the grief that succeeded to the death of 
Eugenie, he woke to find himself amidst the strange faces 
and exciting scenes of an Oriental court, he turned with 
hard and disgustful contempt from Pleasure, as an infi- 
delity to the dead. Ambition crept over him — his mind 
hardened as his cheek bronzed under those burning suns 
11 * 


126 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


— his hardy frame, his energies prematurely awakened, 
his constitutional disregard to danger, — made him a 
brave and skilful soldier. He acquired reputation and 
rank. But, as time went on, the ambition took a higher 
flight — he felt his sphere circumscribed; the Eastern in- 
dolence that filled up the long intervals between Eastern 
action chafed a temper never at rest: he returned to 
France : his reputation, Liancourt’s friendship, and the 
relations of Eugenie — grateful, as has before been im- 
plied, for the generosity with which he surrendered the 
principal part of her donation — opened for him a new 
career, but one painful and galling. In the Indian court 
there was no question of his birth — one adventurer was 
equal with the rest. But in Paris, a man attempting to 
rise provoked all the sarcasm of wit, all the cavils of party ; 
and in polished and civil life, what valor has weapons 
against a jest ? Thus, in civilization, all the passions 
that spring from humiliated self-love and baffled aspira- 
tion again preyed upon his breast. He saw then, that 
the more he struggled from obscurity, the more acute 
would become research into his true origin ; and his 
writhing pride almost stung to death his ambition. To 
succeed in life by regular means was indeed difficult for 
this man ; always recoiling from the name he bore — 
always strong in the hope yet to regain that to which he 
conceived himself entitled — cherishing that pride of 
country which never deserts the native of a Free State, 
however harsh a parent she may have proved ; and, above 
all, whatever his ambition and his passions, taking, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


127 


from the very misfortunes he had known, an indomitable 
belief in the ultimate justice of Heaven ; — he had refused 
to sever the last ties that connected him' with his lost 
heritage and his forsaken land— he refused to be natural- 
ized — to make the name he bore legally undisputed — he 
w r as contented to be an alien. Neither was Yaudemont 
fitted exactly for that crisis in the social world when the 
men of journals and talk bustle aside the men of action. 
He had not cultivated literature, he had no book-know- 
ledge — the world had been his school, and stern life his 
teacher. Still, eminently skilled in those physical ac- 
complishments which men admire and soldiers covet, calm 
and self-possessed in manner, of great personal advan- 
tages, of much ready talent and practised observation in 
character, he continued to breast the obstacles around 
him, and to establish himself in the favor of those in 
power. It was natural to a person so reared and circum- 
stanced to have no sympathy with what is called the 
popular cause. He -was no citizen in the state, — he was 
a stranger in the land. He had suffered, and still suf- 
fered, too much from mankind, to have that philanthropy, 
sometimes visionary but always noble, which, in fact, gen- 
erally springs from the studies we cultivate, not in the 
forum, but the closet. Men, alas ! too often lose the 
Democratic Enthusiasm in proportion as they find reason 
to suspect or despise their kind. And if there were not 
hopes for the Future, which this hard, practical, daily 
life does not suffice to teach us, the vision and the glory 
that belong to the Great Popular Creed, dimmed beneath 


128 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the injustice, the follies, and the vices of the world as it 
is, would fade into the lukewarm sectarianism of tempo- 
rary Party. 'Moreover, Vaudemont’s habits of thought 
and reasoning were those of the camp, confirmed by the 
systems familiar to him in the East : he regarded the 
populace as a soldier enamoured of discipline and order 
usually does. His theories, therefore, or rather his igno- 
rance of what is sound in theory, went with Charles the 
Tenth in his excesses, but not with the timidity which 
terminated those excesses by dethronement and disgrace. 
Chafed to the heart, gnawed with proud grief, he obeyed 
the royal mandates, and followed the exiled monarch : his 
hopes overthrown, his career in France annihilated for 
ever. But on entering England, his temper, confident 
and ready of resource, fastened itself on new food. In 
the land where he had no name he might yet rebuild his 
fortunes. It was an arduous effort — an improbable 
hope ; but the words heard by the bridge of Paris — words 
that had often cheered him in his exile through hardships 
and through dangers which it is unnecessary to our nar- 
rative to detail — yet rang again in his ear, as he leaped 
on his native land — “Time, Faith, Energy.” 

While such his character in Hie larger and more dis- 
tant relations of life, in the closer circles of companion- 
ship many rare and noble qualities were visible. It is 
true that he was stern, perhaps imperious — of a temper 
that always struggled for command ; but he was deeply 
susceptible of kindness, and if feared by those who op- 
posed. loved by those who served him. About his 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


129 


cnaracter was that mixture of tenderness and fierceness 
which belonged, of old, to the descriptions of the warrior. 
Though so little lettered, Life had taught him a certain 
poetry of sentiment and idea : — More poetry, perhaps, 
in the silent thoughts that, in his happier moments, filled 
his solitude, than in half the pages that his brother had 
read and written by the dreaming lake. A certain large- 
ness of idea and nobility of impulse often made him act 
the sentiments of which bookmen write. With all his 
passions, he held licentiousness in disdain ; with all his 
ambition for the power of wealth, he despised its luxury 
Simple, masculine, severe, abstemious, he was of that 
mould in which, in earlier times, the successful men of 
action have been cast. But to successful action, cir- 
cumstance is more necessary than to triumphant study. 

It was to be expected that, in proportion as he had 
been familiar with a purer and nobler life, he should look 
with great and deep self-humiliation at his early associa- 
tion with Gawtrey. He was in this respect more severe 
on himself than any other mind ordinarily just and 
candid would have been, — when fairly surveying the eir 
cumstances of penury, hunger, and despair, which had 
driven him to Gawtrey’s roof, the imperfect nature of his 
early education, the boyish trust and affection he had felt 
for his protector, and his own ignorance of, and exemp- 
tion from, all the worse practices of that unhappy 
criminal. But still, when, with the knowledge he had now 
acquired, the man looked calmly back, his cheek burned 
with remorseful shame at his unreflecting compauion 
11 * 


i 


130 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


ship in a life of subterfuge and equivocation, the tret 
nature of which, the boy (so circumstanced as we havs 
shown him) might be forgiven for not at that time com- 
prehending. Two advantages resulted, however, from 
the error and the remorse : first, the humiliation it 
brought, curbed, in some measure, a pride that might 
otherwise have been arrogant and unamiable ; and, 
secondly, as I have before intimated, his profound 
gratitude to Heaven for his deliverance from the snares 
that had beset his youth, gave his future the guide of an 
earnest and heart-felt faith. He acknowledged in life no 
such thing as accident. Whatever his struggles, whatever 
his melancholy, whatever his sense of wordly wrong, he 
never despaired ; for nothing now could shake his belief 
in one directing Providence. 

The ways and habits of Vaudemont were not at discord 
with those of the quiet household in which he was now a 
guest. Like most men of strong frames, and accustomed 
to active, not studious pursuits, he rose early ; — and 
usually rode to London, to come back late at noon to 
their frugal meal. And if again, perhaps after the hour 
when Fanny and Simon retired, he would often return to 
London, his own pass-key re-admitted ' him, at whatever 
time he came back, without disturbing the sleep of the 
household. Sometimes, when the sun began to decline, 
if the air was warm, the old man would crawl out, leaning 
on that strong arm, through the neighboring lanes, ever 
returning through the lonely burial-ground ; or w hen the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


131 


blind host clung to his fireside, and composed himself to 
sleep, Philip would saunter forth along with Fanny ; and 
on the days when she went to sell her work, or select her 
purchases, he always made a point of attending her. And 
her cheek wore a flush of pride when she saw him carry* 
ing her little basket, or waiting without, in musing 
patience, while she performed her commissions in the 
shops. Though, in reality, Fanny’s intellect was ripening 
within, yet still the surface often misled the eye as to the 
depths. - It was rather that something yet held back the 
faculties from their growths, than that the faculties them- 
selves were wanting. Her weakness was more of the 
nature of the infant’s than of one afflicted with incurable 
imbecility. For instance, she managed the little house- 
hold with skill and prudence ; she could calculate in her 
head as rapidly as Vaudemont himself, the arithmetic 
necessary to her simple duties ; she knew the value of 
money, which is more than some of us wise folk do. Her 
skill, even in her infancy so remarkable, in various 
branches of female handiwork, was carried, not only by 
perseverance, but by invention and peculiar talent, to a 
marvellous and exquisite perfection. Her embroidery, 
especially in what was then more rare than at present, 
viz., flowers on silk, was much in request among the 
great modistes of London, to whom it found its way 
through the agency of Miss Semper. So that all this 
had enabled her, for years, to provide every necessary 
comfort of life for herself and her blind protector. And 
her care for the old man was beautiful in Hs minuteness, 


/ 


132 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

its vigilance. Wherever her heart was interested, there 
never seemed a deficiency of mind. Yaudemont was 
touched to see how much of affectionate and pitying re- 
Bpect she appeared to enjoy in the neighborhood, es- 
pecially among the humbler classes — even tbe beggar 
who swept the crossings did not beg of her, but bade 
God bless her as she passed ; and the rude, discontented 
artisan would draw himself from the wall and answer, 
with a softened brow, the smile with which the harmless 
one charmed his courtesy. In fact, whatever attraction 
she took from her youth, her beauty, her misfortune, and 
her affecting industry, was heightened, in the eyes of the 
poorer neighbors, by many little traits of charity and 
kindness : many a sick child had she tended, and many a 
breadless board had stolen something from the stock set 
aside for her father’s grave. 

“ Don’t you think,” she once whispered to Yaudemont, 
“ that God attends to us more if we are good to those 
who are sick and hungry ? ” 

“ Certainly, we are taught to think so.” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you a secret — don’t tell again. Grand- 
papa once said that my father had done bad things ; now, 
if Fanny is good to those she can help, I think that God 
will hear her more kindly when she prays him to forgivo 
what her father did. Do you think so too ? Do say — 
you are so x wise ! ” 

“ Fanny, you are wiser than all of us ; and I feel my- 
self better and happier when I hear you speak.” 

There were, indeed, many moments when Yaudemom 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


133 


thought that her deficiencies of intellect might have been 
repaired, long since, by skilful culture and habitual com- 
panionship with those of her own age ; from which com- 
panionship, however, Fanny, even when at school, had 
shrunk aloof. At other moments, there was something 
so absent and distracted about her, or so fantastic and 
incoherent, that Yaudemont, with the man’s hard, worldly 
eye, read in it nothing but melancholy confusion. Never- 
theless, if the skein of ideas was entangled, each thread 
in itself was a thread of gold. 

Fanny’s great object — her great ambition — her one 
hope — was a tomb for her supposed father. Whether 
from some of that early religion attached to the grave, 
which is most felt in Catholic countries, and which she 
had imbibed at a convent; or from her residence so 
near the burial-ground, and the affection with which she 
regarded the spot ; — whatever the cause, she had che- 
rished for some years, as young maidens usualy cherish 
the desire of the Alter — the dream of the Grave-stone. 
But the hoard was amassed so slowly; — now old Gaw- 
trey was attacked by illness ; — now there was some little 
difficulty in the rent ; now some fluctuation in the price 
of work ; and now, and more often than all, some demand ^ 
on her charity, which interfered with, and drew from, the 
pious savings. This was a sentiment in which her new 
friend sympathised deeply ; for he, too, remembered that 
his first gold had bought that humble stone which still 
preserved upon the earth the memory of his mother. 

II. — 12 


134 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Meanwhile, days crept on, and no new violence was 
offered to Fanny. Vaudemont learned, then, by little 
and little — and Fanny’s account was very confused — 
the nature of the danger she had run. 

It seemed that one day, tempted by the fineness of the 
weather up the road that led from the suburb farther 
into the country, Fanny was stopped by a gentleman in a 
carriage, who accosted her, as she said, very kindly : 
and, after several questions, which she answered with her 
usual unsuspecting innocence, learned her trade, insisted 
on purchasing some articles of work which she had at 
the moment in her basket, and promised to procure her 
a constant purchaser, upon much better terms than she 
had hitherto obtained, if she would call at the house of 
a Mrs. West, about a mile from the suburb towards 
London. This she promised to do, and this she did, 
according to the address he gave her. She was admitted 
to a lady more gaily dressed than Fanny had ever seen 
a lady before — the gentleman was also present — they 
both loaded her with compliments, and bought her work 
at a price which seemed about to realize all the hopes 
of the poor girl as to the grave-stone for William Gaw- 
trey — as if his evil fate pursued that wild man beyond 
the grave, and his very tomb was to be purchased by the 
'gold of the polluter 1 The lady then appointed her to 
call again ; but meanwhile, she met Fanny in the streets, 
and while she was accosting her, it fortunately chanced 
that Miss Semper, the milliner, passed that way — turned 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


J35 


round, looked hard at the lady, used very angry language 
to her, seized Fanny’s hand, led her away, while the lady 
slunk off; and told her that the said lady was a very bad 
woman, and that Fauny must never speak to her again. 
Fanny most cheerfully promised this. And, in fact, the 
lady, probably afraid, whether of the mob or the magis- 
trates, never again came near her. 

“And,” said Fanny, “ I gave the money they had both 
given to me to Miss Semper, who said she would send 
it back.” 

“You did right, Fanny ; and as you made one promise 
to Miss Semper, so you must make me one — never to 
stir from home again without me or some other person. 
No, no other person — only me. I will give up every- 
thing else to go with you.” 

“ Will you ? Oh, yes, I promise ! I used to like going 
dlone, but that was before you came, brother.” 

And as Fanny kept her promise, it would have been a 
bold gallant indeed who would have ventured to molest 
her by the side of that stately and strong protector. 


i 


136 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER Y I. 

1 Timon. Each thing’s a thief: 

The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power 
Have uncheck’d theft. 
***** 

The sweet degrees that this brief world affords, 

To such a 8 may the passive drugs of it 
Freely command.” — Timon of Athens. 

On the day and at the hour fixed for the interview with 
the stranger who had visited Mr. Beaufort, Lord Lil- 
burne was seated in the library of his brother-in-law ; and 
before the elbow-chair, on which he lolled carelessly, 
stood our old friend Mr. Sharp, of Bow Street notability. 

“ Mr. Sharp,” said the peer, “ I have Sent for you to 
do me a little favor. I expect a man here who professes 
to give Mr. Beaufort, my brother-in-law, some information 
about a lawsuit. It is necessary to know the exact value 
of his evidence. I wish you to ascertain all particulars 
about him. Be so good as to seat yourself in the porter’s 
chair in the hall ; note him when he enters, unobserved 
yourself — but as he is probably a stranger to you, note 
him still more when he leaves the house ; follow him at a 
distance ; find out where he lives, whom he associates 
with, where he visits, their names and directions, what 
his character and calling are; — in a word, everything 
you can, and report to me each evening. Dog him well, 
never lose sight of him — you will be handsomely paid. 
You understand?” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


137 


“Ah!” said Mr. Sharp, “leave me alone, my lord. 
Been employed before by your lordship’s brother-in-law. 
We knows what’s what.” 

“ I don’t doubt it. To your post. — I expect him every 
moment.” 

And, in fact, Mr. Sharp had only just ensconced him- 
self in the porter’s chair when the stranger knocked at 
the door — in another moment he was shown in to Lord 
Lilburne. 

“ Sir,” said his lordship, without rising, “be so good 
as to take a chair. Mr. Beaufort is obliged to leave town 
— he has asked me to see you — I am one of his family 
his wife is my sister — you may be as frank with me as 
with him, — more so, perhaps.” 

“ I beg the fauvor of your name, sir,” said the stranger, 

adjusting his collar. 

“Yours first — business is business.” 

“Well, then, Captain Smith.” 

“Of what regiment?” 

“ Half-pay.” 

“ I am Lord Lilburne. Your name is Smith— humph !” 
added the peer,- looking over some notes before him. “ I 
see it is also the name of the witness appealed to by Mrs 
Morton — humph ! ” 

At this remark, and still more at the look which ac- 
companied it, the countenance, before impudent and 
complacent, of Captain Smith fell into visible embarrass- 
ment ; he cleared his throat and said, with a little hesi- 

tation, — 

12 * 


l38 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“My lord, that witness is living!” 

“ N° doubt of it — witnesses never die where property 
is concerned and imposture intended.” 

At this moment the servant entered, and placed a little 
note, quaintly folded, before Lord Lilburne, He glanced 
at it in surprise — opened, and read as follows, in pencil : — 

11 -M- y Lord, — I knows the man ; take caer of him ; he 
is as big a roge as ever stept ; he was transported some 
three year back, and unless his time has been shortened 
by the Home, lie’s absent without leve. We used to call 
him Dashing Jerry. That ere youngster we went arter, 
by Mr. Bofort’s wish, was a pal of his. Scuze the liberty 
^ “ J. Sharp.” 

While Lord Lilburne held this effusion to the candle, 
and spelled his way through it. Captain Smith, recover- 
ing his self-composure, thus proceeded : 

“ Imposture, my lord ! imposture ! I really don’t un- 
derstand. Your lordship really seems so suspicious, that 
it is quite uncomfortable I am sure it is all the same to 
me ; and if Mr. Beaufort does not think proper to see me 
himself, why I’d best make my bow.” 

And Captain Smith rose. 

“ Stay a moment, sir. What Mr. Beaufort may yet do, 

I cannot say ; but I know this, you stand charged of a 
very grave offence, and. if your witness or witnesses— y( u 
may have fifty, for what I care — are equally guilty, so 
much the worse for them.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


1 33 

“My lord I really don’t comprehend.” 

“ Then I will be more plain. I accuse you of devising 
an infamous falsehood for the purpose of extorting mo- 
ney. Let your witnesses appear in court, and I promise 
that you, they, and the young man, Mr. Morton, whose 
claim they set up, shall be indicted for conspiracy 
conspiracy, if accompanied (as in the case of your wit- 
nesses) with perjury, of the blackest dye. Mr. Smith, 1 
know you ; and, before ten o’clock to-morrow, I shall 
know also if you had his majesty’s leave to quit the colo- 
nies ! Ah ! I am ^plain enough now, I see.” 

And Lord Lilburne threw himself back in his chair, 
and coldly contemplated the white face and dismayed ex- 
pression of the crest-fallen captain. That most worthy 
person, after a pause of confusion, amaze, and fear, made 
an involuntary stride, with a menacing gesture, towards 
Lilburne ; the peer quietly placed his hand on the bell. 

“ On/ moment more,” said the latter ; “ if I ring this 
bell, it is to place you in custody. Let Mr. Beaufort but 
see you here once again — nay, let him but hear another 
word of this pretended lawsuit — and you return to the 
colonies. Pshaw ! Frown not at me, sir ! A Bow Street 
officer is in the hall. Begone ! — no, stop one moment, 
and take a lesson in life. Never again attempt to threaten 
people of property and station. Around every rich man 
is a wall — better not run your head against it.” 

“But I swear solemnly,” cried the knave, with an em- 
phasis so startling, that it carried with it the appearane* 

of truth, “that the marriage did take place.” 

2i 


140 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

“And I say, no less solemnly, that any one who swears 
it in a court of law shall be prosecuted for perjury ! — 
Bah ! you are a sorry rogue, after all ! ” 

And with an air of supreme and half-compassionate 
contempt, Lord Lilburne turned away and stirred the 
fire. Captain Smith muttered and fumbled a moment 
with his gloves, then shrugged his shoulders and sneaked 
out. 

That night Lord Lilburne again received his friends, 
and amongst his guests came Yaudemont. Lilburne was 
one who liked the study of character, especially the cha- 
racter of men wrestling against the world. Wholly free 
from every species of ambition, he seemed to reconcile 
himself to his apathy by examining into the disquietude, 
the mortification, the heart’s wear and tear, which are the 
lot of the ambitious. Like the spider in his hole, he 
watched with hungry pleasure the flies struggling in the 
web ; through whose slimy labyrinth he walked with an 
easy safety. Perhaps, one reason why he loved gaming 
was less from the joy of winning than the phif jsophical 
complacency with which he feasted on the em jtiona of 
those who lost : always serene, and, except in debauch, 
always passionless, — Majendie, tracing the eaperiments 
of science in the agonies of some tortured dog, could not 
be more wrapt in the science, and more indiffei ant to the 
dog, than Lord Lilburne, ruining a victim, in the analysis 
of human passions, — stoical in the writhings of the wretch 
whom he tranquilly dissected. He wished to win money 
of Yaudemont — to ruin this man, who presumed to be 


NIGHT AND MORNING 141 

more generous than other people — to see a bold adven- 
turer submitted to the wheel of the Fortune which reigns 
in a pack: of cards ; — and all, of course, without the least 
hate to the man whom he then saw for the first time. On 
the contrary, he fjelt a respect for Vaudemont. Like most 
worldly men, Lord Lilburne was prepossessed in favor 
of those who seek to rise in life : and like men who have 
excelled in manly and athletic exercises, he was also pre- 
possessed in favor of those who appeared fitted for the 
same success. 

Liancourt took aside his friend, as Lord Lilburne was 
talking with his other guests : — 

“ 1 need not caution you, who never play, not to com- 
mit yourself to Lord Lilburne’s tender mercies ; remem- 
ber, he is an admirable player.” 

“Nay,” answered Yaudemont, “I want to know this 
man : I have reasons, which alone induce me to enter his 
house. I can afford to venture something, because I wish 
to see if I can gain something for one dear to me. And 
for the rest (he muttered) — I know him too well not to 
be on my guard.” With that he joined Lord Lilburne’s 
group, and accepted the invitation to the card-table. At 
supper, Yaudemont conversed more than was habitual to 
him ; he especially addressed himself to his host, and 
listened, with great attention, to Lilburne’s caustic com- 
ments upon every topic successively started. And whether 
it was the art of De Yaudemont, or from an interest that 
Lord Lilburne took in studying what was to him a new 
°haracter, — or whether that, both men excelling pecu* 


142 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


liarly in all masculine accomplishments, their conversation 
was of a nature that was more attractive to themselves 
than to others ; it so happened, that they were still talk- 
ing while the daylight already peered through the window- 
curtains. 

“And I have outstayed all your guests,” said De Yaude* 
mont, glancing round the emptied room. 

“ It is the best compliment you could pay me. Another 
night we can enliven our tete-a-tete with ecarte; though 
at your age, and with your appearance, I am surprised, 
Monsieur de Yaudemont, that you are fond of play: I 
should have thought that it was not in a pack of cards 
that you looked for hearts. But perhaps you are blase 
betimes of the beau sexe.” 

“ Yet your lordship’s devotion to it is, perhaps, as great 
now as ever?” 

“ Mine ? — no, not as ever. To different ages different 
degrees. At your age I wooed ; at mine I purchase — 
better plan of the two : it does not take up half so much 
time.” 

“ Your marriage, I think, Lord Lilburne, was not 
blessed with children. Perhaps sometimes you feel the 
want of them ? ” 

“If I did, I could have them by the dozen. Other 
ladies have been more generous in that department than 
the late Lady Lilburne, Heaven rest her ! ” 

“And,” said Yaudemont, fixing his eyes with some 
earnestness on his host, “if you were really persuaded 
that you had a child, or perhaps a grandchild — the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


143 


mother one whom you loved in your first youth — a child 
affectionate, beautiful, and especially needing your care 
and protection, would you not suffer that child, though 
illegitimate, to supply to you the want of filial affection ? ” 

“ Filial affection, mon cher ! ” repeated Lord Lilburne, 
“needing my care and protection! Pshaw! In other 
words, would I give board and lodging to some young 
vagabond who was good enough to say he was son to 
Lord Lilburne ? ” 

“But if you were convinced that the claimant were 
your son, or perhaps your daughter — a tenderer name 
of the two, and a more helpless claimant ? ” 

“My dear Monsieur de Yaudemont, you are doubtless 
a man of gallantry and of the world. If the children 
whom the law forces on one are, nine times out of ten, 
such damnable plagues, judge if one would father those 
whom the law permits us to disown ! Natural children 
are the Parias of the world, and I — am one of the Brah 
mans. 

“But,” persisted Yaudemont, “forgive me if I press 
the question farther. Perhaps I seek from your wisdom 
a guide to my own conduct : — suppose, then, a man had 
loved, had wronged, the mother; — suppose that in the 
child he saw one who, without his aid, might be exposed 
to every curse with which the Parias (true, the Parias! ) 
of the world are too often visited, and who with his aid 
might become, as age advanced, his companion, his nurse, 
his comforter ” 

“ Tush ! ” interrupted Lilburne, with some impatience ; 


144 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ I know not how our conversation fell on such a topic 
— but if you really ask ray opinion in reference to any 
case in practical life, you shall have it. Look you, then, 
Monsieur de Yaudemont, no man has studied the art of 
happiness more than I have ; and I will tell you the great 
secret — have as few ties as possible. Nurse ! — pooh’ 
you or I could hire one by the week a thousand times 
more useful and careful than a bore of a child. Com- 
forter ! — a man of mind never wants comfort. And 
there is no such thing as sorrow while we have health 
and money, and don’t care a straw for anybody in the 
world. If you choose to love people, their health and 
circumstances, if either go wrong, can fret you : that opens 
many evenues to pain. Never live alone, but always feel 
alone. You think this unamiable : possibly. I am no 
hypocrite, and, for my part, I never affect -to be anything 
but what I am — John Lilburne.” 

As the peer thus spoke, Yaudemont, leaning against 
the door, contemplated him with a strange mixture of 
interest and disgust. “And John Lilburne is thought 
a great man, and William Gawtrey was a great rogue. 
You don’t conceal your heart? — no, I understand. 
Wealth and power have no need of hypocrisy : you are 
the man of vice — Gawtrey, the man of crime. Y r ou 
never sin against the law — he was a felon by his trade. 
And the felon saved from vice the child, and from want 
the grandchild {your flesh and blood) whom you disown : 
which will Heaven consider the worse man ! No. pcor 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


145 


Fanny ! I see I am wrong. If he would own you, I 
would not give you up to the ice of such a soul : — better 
the blind man than the dead heart ! ” 

“Well, Lord Lilburne,” said De Yaudemont aloud, 
shaking off his reverie, “ I must own that your philosophy 
seems to me the wisest for yourself. For a poor man it 
might be different — the poor need affection. ” 

“ Ay, the poor, certainly,” said Lord Lilburne, with 
an air of patronizing candor. 

“And I will own farther,” continued De Yaudemont, 
“ that I have willingly lost my money in return for the 
instruction I have received in hearing you converse.” 

“ Yon are kind : come and take your revenge next 
Thursday. Adieu.” 

As Lord Lilburne undressed, and his valet attended 
him, he said to that worthy functionary — 

“ So you have not been able to make out the name of 
the stranger — the new lodger you tell me of?” 

“ No, my lord. They only say he is a very fine-look- 
ing man.” 

“You have not seen him?” 

“ No, my lord. What do you wish me now to do ?” 

“Humph! Nothing at this moment! you manage 
things so badly. You might get me into a scrape. I 
never do anything which the law, or the police, or even 
the newspapers, can get hold of. I must think of some 
other way — humph ! I never give up what I once com- 
mence, and I never fail in what I undertake ! If life had 
II. — 13 


K 


146 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


been worth what fools trouble it with — business anti 
ambition — I suppose I should have been a great man 
with a very bad liver — ha! ha! I, alone, of all the 
world, ever found out what the world was good for ! 
Draw the curtains, Dykeman.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Orff. Welcome thou ice that sitt’st about his heart! 

No heat can ever thaw thee ! ” — Ford : Broken Heart. 

“ Nearch. Honorable infamy! ” — Ibid. 

“ Amyc. Her tenderness hath yet deserved no rigor, 

So to be crossed by fate ! 

Arm. You misapply, sir, 

With favor let me speak it, what Apollo 
Hath clouded in dim sense ! ” — Ibid. 

If Yaudemont had fancied that, considering the age 
and poverty of Simon, it was his duty to see whether 
Fanny’s not more legal, but more natural protector were, 
indeed, the unredeemed and un malleable egotist which 
Gawtrey had painted him, the conversation of one night 
was sufficient to make him abandon for ever the notion 
of advancing her claims upon Lord Lilburne. But Philip 
had another motive in continuing his acquaintance with 
that personage. The sight of his mother’s grave had 
recalled to him the image of that lost brother over whom 
he had vowed to watch. And, despite the deep sense of 
wronged affection with which he yet remembered the 


night and morning 


141 


cruel le.ter that had contained the last tidings of Sidney, 
Philip’s heart clung with undying fondness to that fair 
shape associated with all the happy recollections of child- 
hood ; and his conscience as well as his love asked him, 
each time that he passed the church-yard, ‘ Will you make 
no effort to obey that last prayer of the mother who con- 
signed her darling to your charge ?’ Perhaps, had Philip 
been in want, or had the name he now bore been sullied 
by his conduct, he might have shrunk from seeking one 
whom he might injure, but could not serve. But though 
not rich, he had more than enough for tastes as hardy 
and simple as any to which soldier of fortune ever limited 
his desires. And he thought, with a sentiment of just 
and noble pride, that the name which Eugenie had forced 
upon him had been borne spotless as the ermine through 
the trials and vicissitudes he had passed since he had as- 
sumed it. Sidney could give him nothing, and therefore 
it was his duty to seek Sidney out. Now, he had always 
believed in his heart that the Beauforts were acquainted 
with a secret which he more and more pined' to penetrate. 
He would, for Sidney’s sake, smother his hate to the 
Beauforts; he would not reject their acquaintance if 
thrown in his way ; nay, secure in his change of name 
and his altered features, from all suspicion on their part, 
he would seek that acquaintance in order to find his bro- 
ther and fulfil Catherine’s last commands. His inter- 
course with Lilburne would necessarily bring him easily 
into contact with Lilburne’s family. And in this thought 
be did not reject the invitations pressed on him. He 


148 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


felt, too, a dark and absorbing interest in examining a 
man who was in himself the incarnation of the World — 
the World of Art — the World as the Preacher paints it 
— the hollow, sensual, sharp-witted, self- wrapped World 
— the World that is all for this life, and thinks of no 
Future and no God ! 

Lord Lilburne was, indeed, a study for deep contem- 
plation. A study to perplex the ordinary thinker, and 
task to the utmost the analysis of more profound reflec- 
tion. William Gawtrey had possessed no common talents ; 
he had discovered that his life had been one mistake ; — 
Lord Lilburne’s intellect was far keener than Gawtrey’s, 
and he had never made, and if he had lived to the age 
of Old Parr, never would have made a similar discovery. 
He never wrestled against a law, though he slipped 
through all laws ! And he knew no remorse, for he 
knew no fear. Lord Lilburne had married early, and 
long survived, a lady of fortune, the daughter of the then 
Premier — the best match, in fact, of his day. And for 
one very brief period of his life he had suffered himself 
to enter into the field of politics — the only ambition com- 
mon with men of equal rank. He showed talents that 
might have raised one so gifted by circumstance to any 
height, and then retired at once into his old habits and 
old system of pleasure. “ I wished to try,” said he once, 
“if fame was worth one headache, and I have convinced 
myself that the man who can sacrifice the bone in his 
mouth to the shadow of the bone in the water is a fool.” 
Prom that time he never attended the House of Lords, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


I4l 


and declared himself of no political opinions one way or 
the other. Nevertheless, the world had a general belief 
in his powers, and Yaudemont reluctantly subscribed to 
the world’s verdict. Yet he had done nothing, he had 
read but little, he laughed at the world to its face, — and 
that laugh was, after all, the main secret of his ascendency 
over those who were drawn into his circle. That con- 
tempt of the world placed the world at his feet. His 
sardonic and polished indifference, his professed code 
that there was no life worth caring for but his own life, 
his exemption from all cant, prejudice, and disguise, the 
frigid lubricity with which he glided out of the grasp of 
the Conventional, whenever it so pleased him, without 
shocking the Decorums whose sense is in their ear, and 
who are not roused by the deed but by the noise, — all 
this had in it the marrow and essence of a system tri- 
umphant with the vulgar ; for little minds give import- 
ance to the man who gives importance to nothing. Lord 
Lilburne’s authority, not in matters of taste alone, but in 
those which the world calls judgment and common sense, 
was regarded as an oracle. He cared not a straw for the 
ordinary baubles that attract his order ; he had refused 
both an earldom and the garter, and this was often quoted 
in his honor. But you only try a man’s virtue when you 
offer him something that he covets. The earldom and 
the garter were to Lord Lilburne no more tempting in- 
ducements than a doll or a skipping-rope ; had you offered 
him an infallible cure for the gout, or an antidote against 
old age, you might have hired him, as your lackey, on 
13* 


150 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


your own terms. Lord Lilburne’s next heir was the son 
of his only brother, a person entirely dependent on his 
uncle. Lord Lilburne allowed him £1000 a-year, and 
kept him always abroad in a diplomatic situation. He 
looked upon his successor as a mail who wanted power, 
but not inclination, to become his assassin. 

Though he lived sumptuously and grudged himself no- 
thing, Lord Lilburne was far from an extravagant man : 
he might, indeed, be considered close ; for he knew how 
much of comfort and consideration he owed to his money, 
and valued it accordingly ; he knew the best speculations 
and the best investments. If he took shares in an 
American canal, you might be sure that the shares would 
soon be double in value ; if he purchased an estate, you 
might be certain it was a bargain. This pecuniary tact 
and success necessarily augmented his fame for wisdom. 

He had been in early life a successful gambler, and 
some suspicions of his fair play had been noised abroad ; 
but, as has been recently seen in the instance of a man 
of rank equal to Lilburne’s, though, perhaps, of less acute 
if more cultivated intellect, it is long before the pigeon 
will turn round upon a falcon of breed and mettle. The 
rumors, indeed, were so vague as to carry with them no 
weight. During the middle of his career, when in the 
full flush of health and fortune, he had renounced the 
gaming-table. Of late years, as advancing age made 
time more heavy, he had resumed the resource, and with 
all his former good luck. The money-market, the table, 
the sex, constituted the other occupations and amuse- 
ments with which Lord Lilburne filled up his rosy leisure. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


15i 


Another way by which this man had acquired reputa 
tion for ability was this, — he never pretended to any 
branch of knowledge of which he was ignorant, any more 
than to any virtue in which he was deficient. Honesty 
itself was never more free from quackery or deception 
than was this embodied and walking Tice. If the world 
chose to esteem him, he did not buy its opinion by im- 
posture. Ho man ever saw Lord Lilburne’s name in a 
public subscription, whether for a new church, or a Bible 
Society, or a distressed family, — no man ever heard of 
his doing one generous, benevolent, or kindly action, — 
no man was ever startled by one philanthropic, pious or 
amiable sentiment from those mocking lips. Yet. in 
spite of all this, John Lord Lilburne was not only es- 
teemed but liked by the world, and set up in the chair 
of its Rhadamanthuses. In a word, he seemed to Yaude- 
mont, and he was so in reality, a brilliant example of the 
might of Circumstance — an instance of what may be 
done in the way of reputation and influence by a rich, 
well-born man, to whom the will a kingdom is. A little 
of genius, and Lord Lilburne would have made his vices 
notorious and his deficiencies glaring ; a little of heart, 
and his habits would have led him into countless follies 
and discreditable scrapes. It was the lead and the stone 
that he carried about him, that preserved his equilibrium, 
no matter which way the breeze blew. But all his quali- 
ties, positive or negative, would have availed him nothing 
without that position which enabled him to take his ease 
in that inn, the world — which presented, to every detec- 


152 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


tion of his want of intrinsic nobleness, the irreproachable 
respectability of a high name, a splendid mansion, and a 
rent-roll without a flaw. Vaudemont drew comparisons 
between Lilburne and Gawtrey, and he comprehended at 
last, why one was a low rascal and the other a great man. 

Although it was but a few days after their first intro- 
duction to each other, Yaudemont had been twice to 
Lord Lilburne’s, and their acquaintance was already on 
an easy footing — when one afternoon, as the former was 

riding through the streets towards H , he met the 

peer, mounted on a stout cob, which, from its symmetrical 
strength, pure English breed, and exquisite grooming, 
showed something of those sporting tastes for which, in 
earlier, life, Lord Lilburne had been noted. 

“Why, Monsieur de Yaudemont, what brings you to 
this part of the town? — curiosity and the desire to 
explore ? ” 

“ That might be natural enough in me ; but you, who 
know London so well ; — rather what brings you here ? ” 

“ Why I am returned from a long ride. I have had 
symptoms of a fit of the gout, and been trying to keep it 
off by exercise. I have been to a cottage that belongs 
to me, some miles from town — a pretty place enough by 
the way — you must come and see me there next month. 
I shall fill the house for a battue ! I have some tolerable 
covers — you are a good shot, I suppose ? ” 

“I have not practised, except with a rifle, for some 
years.” 

“ That’s a pity ; for as I think a week’s shooting once 


NIGHT (AND MORNING. 


153 


a-year quite enough, I fear that your visit to me at 
Fernside may not be sufficiently long to put your hand in.” 

“ Fernside ! ” 

“Yes; is the name familiar to you?” 

“ I think I have heard it before. Did your lordship 
purchase or inherit it ? ” 

“ I bought it of my brother-in-law. It belonged to his 
brother — a gay, wild sort of fellow, who broke his neck 
over a six-barred gate ; — through that gate my friend 
Robert walked the same day into a very fine estate ! ” 

“ I have heard so. The late Mr. Beaufort, then, left 
no children ? ” 

“Yes; two. But they came into the world in the 
primitive way in which Mr. Owen wishes us all to come 
— too naturally for the present state of society, and Mr. 
Owen’s parallelogram was not ready for them. By the 
way, one of them disappeared at Paris ; — you never met 
with him, I suppose ? ” 

“ Under what name ? ” 

“Morton.” f 

“ Morton ! — hem ! What Christian name ? ” 

“ Philip.” 

“ Philip ! — no. But did Mr. Beaufort do nothing for 
the young men ? I think I have heard somewhere that 
he took compassion on one of them.” 

“ Have you ? Ah, my brother-in-law is precisely one 
of those excellent men of whom the world always speaks 
well. No ; he would very willingly have served either or 
both the boys, but the mother refused all his overtures 
13 * 


L54 


NIGHT AND MORNING.' 


and went to law, I fancy. The elder of these bastards 
tnrned out a sad fellow, and the younger, — I don’t know 
exactly where he is, but no doubt with one of his mother’s 
relations. You seem to interest yourself in natural 
children, my dear Vaudemont?” 

“ Perhaps you have heard that people have doubted 
if I were a natural son?” 

“ Ah ! I understand now. But are you going ? — I 
was in hopes you would have turned back my way, 
and ” 

“ You are very good ; but I have a particular appoint- 
ment, and I am now too late. Good morning, Lord 
Lilburne.” 

Sidney with one of his mother’s relations ! Returned* 
perhaps, to the Mortons 1 How, had he never before 
chanced on a conjecture so probable ? He would go at 
once ! — that very night he would go to the house from 
which he had taken his brother. At least, and at the 
worst, they might give him some clue. 

Buoyed with this hope and this resolve, he rode hastily 

to H , to announce to Simon and Fanny that he 

should not return to them, perhaps, for two or three 
days. As he entered the suburb, he drew up by the 
statuary of whom he had purchased his mother’s grave- 
stone. 

The artist of the melancholy trade was at work in his 
yard. 

“ Ho ! there 1 ” said Yaudemont, looking over the low 
railing ; “ is the tomb I have ordered nearly finished ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


155 


“Why, sir, as yon were so anxious for despatch, and 
as it would take a long time to get a new one ready, ] 
thought of giving you this, which is finished all but the 
inscription. It was meant for Miss Deborah Primme ; 
but her nephew and heir called on me yesterday to say, 
that as the poor lady died worth less by 5000Z. than he 
had expected, he thought a handsome wooden tomb 
would do as well, if I could get rid of this for him. It 
is a beauty, sir. It will look so cheerful ” 

“ Well, that will do : and you can place it now where 
I told you.” 

“In three days, sir.” 

“So be it.” And he rode on, muttering, “Fanny, 
your pious wish will be fulfilled. But flowers, — will 
they suit that stone?” 

He put up his horse, and walked through the lane to 
Simon’s. 

As he approached the house, he saw Fanny’s bright 
eyes at the window. She was watching his return. She 
hastened to open the door to him, and the world’s 
wanderer felt what music there is in the footstep, what 
summer there is in the smile, of Welcome! 

“ My dear Fanny,” he said, affected by her joyous 
greeting, “it makes my heart warm to see you. I have 
brought you a present from town. When I was a boy, 
I remember that my poor mother was fond of singing 
some simple songs, which often, somehow or other, come 
back to me, when I see and hear you. I fancy you would 

understand and like them as well at least as I do for 
2k 


15G 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Heaven knows (he added to himself) my ear is dull enough 
generally to the jingle of rhyme.” And he placed in her 
hands a little volume of those exquisite songs in which 
Burns has set Nature to music. 

“ Oh ! you are so kind, brother,” said Fanny, with 
tears swimming in her eyes, and she kissed the book. 

After their simple meal, Yaudemont broke to Fanny 
and Simon the intelligence of his intended departure for 
a few days. Simon heard it with the silent apathy into 
which, except on rare occasions, his life had settled. 
But Fanny turned away her face and wept. 

“It is but for a day or two, Fanny.” 

“An hour is very — very long sometimes,” said tne 
girl, shaking her head mournfully. 

“Come, I have a little time yet left, and the air is 
mild : you have not been out to-day, shall we walk ” 

“Hem 1” interrupted Simon, clearing his throat, and 
seeming to start into sudden animation ; “ had not you 
better settle the board and lodging before you go ?” 

“ Oh, grandfather ! ” cried Fanny, springing to her 
feet, with such a -blush upon her face. 

“Nay, child,” said Yaudemont, laughingly; “your 
grandfather only anticipates me. But do not talk of 
board and lodging ; Fanny is as a sister to me, and our 
purse is in common.” 

“ 1 should like to feel a sovereign —just to feel it,” 
muttered Simon, in a sort of apologetic tone, that was 
really pathetic; and as Yaudemont scattered some coins 
cu the table, the old man clawed them up, chuckling and 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 151 

talking to himself ; and, • rising with great alacrity, 
hobbled out of the room like a raven carrying some 
cunning theft to its hiding-place. 

This was so amusing to Yaudemont that he burst oui 
fairly into an incontrollable laughter. Fanny looked at 
him, humbled and wondering, for some moments ; and 
then, creeping to him, put her hand gently on his arm 
and said, — 

“Don’t laugh — it pains me. It was not nice in 
grandpapa ; but — but, it does not mean anything. It 
— it — don’t laugh — ^Fanny feels so sad ! ” 

“Well, you are right. Come, put on your bonnet, we 
will go out.” 

Fanny obeyed ; but with less ready delight than usual. 
And they took their way through lanes over which hung, 
still in the cool air, the leaves of the yellow autumn. 

Fanny was the first to break silence. 

“ Do you know,” she said, timidly, “that people here 
think me very silly? — do you think so, too?”' 

Vaudemont was startled by the simplicity of the ques- 
tion, and hesitated. Fanny looked up in his dark face 
anxiously and inquiringly. 

“Well,” she said, “you don’t answer?” 

“Mi dear Fanny, there are some things in which I 
could wish you less child-like and, perhaps, less charming. 
Those strange snatches of song, for instance ” 

“ What ! do you not like me to sing ? It is my way 
of talking.” 

“ Yes ; sing, pretty one ! But sing something that we 
II. - 14 


158 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


can understand, — sing the songs I have given you, if 
you will. And now, may I ask why you put to me that 
question ? ” 

“ 1 have forgotten,” said Fanny, absently, and looking 
down. 

Now, at that instant, as Philip Yaudemont bent over 
the exceeding sweetness of that young face, a sudden 
thrill shot through his heart, and he, too, became silent, 
and lost in thought. Was it possible that there could 
creep into his breast a wilder affection for this creature 
than that of tenderness and pity ? He was startled as 
the idea crossed him. He shrunk from it as a profana- 
tion — as a crime — as a frenzy. He with his fate so un- 
certain and chequered — he to link himself with one so 
helpless — he to debase the very poetry that clung to the 
mental temperament of this pure being, with the feelings 
which every fair face may awaken to every coarse heart 
— to love Fanny ! No, it was impossible ! For what could 
he love in her but beauty, which the very spirit had for- 
gotten to guard ? And she — could she even know what 
love was ? He despised himself for even admitting such 
a thought ; and with that iron and hardy vigor which 
belonged to his mind, resolved to watch closely against 
every fancy that would pass the fairy boundary which 
separated Fanny from the world of women. 

He was roused from this self-commune by an abrupt 
exclamation from his companion. 

“ Oh ! I recollect now, why I asked you that question. 
There is one thing that always puzzles me — I want you 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


159 


to explain it. Why does everything in life depend upon 
money ? You see even my poor grandfather forgot how 

good you are to us both, when — when Ah ! I don’t 

understand — it pains — it puzzles me ! ” 

“ Fanny, look there — no, to the left — you see t.iat 
old woman, in rags, crawling wearily along : turn now to 
the right — you see that fine house glancing through the 
trees, with a carriage-and-four at the gates ? The differ- 
ence between that Did woman and the owner of that house 
is — Mobey ; and who shall blame your grandfather for 
liking Money ? ” 

Fanny understood ; and while the wise man thus 
moralized, the girl, whom his very compassion so 
haughtily contemned, moved away to the old woman to 
do her little best to smooth down those disparities from 
which wisdom and moralizing never deduct a grain ! 
Yauderaont felt this as he saw her glide towards the 
beggar ; but when she came bounding back to him, she % 
had forgotton his dislike to her songs, and was chaunting, 
in the glee of the heart that a kind act had made glad, 
one of her own impromptu melodies. 

Vaudemont turned away. Poor Fanny had uncon- 
sciously decided his self-conquest : she guessed not what 
passed within him, but she suddenly recollected what he 
had said to her about her songs, and fancied him dis- 
pleased. 

“Ah! I will never do it again. Brother, don’t turn 
nway ! ” 

“ But we must go home. Hark ! the clock strikes seven 


160 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


— I have no time to lose. And you will promise me 
never to stir out till I return ? ” 

“I shall have no heart to stir out,” said Fanny, sadly ; 
and then in a more cheerful voice, she added, “ And I 
shall sing the songs you like, before you come back again ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Well did they know that service all by rote ; 

* * * * 

Some singing loud as if they bad complained, 

Some with their notes another manner feigned.” 

Chaucer : The Cuckoo and the Nightingale , modernized by 
Wordsworth. — Horne’s Edition. 

And once more, sweet Winandermere, we are on the 
banks of thy happy lake ! — The softest ray of the soft 
clear sun of early autumn trembled on the fresh waters, 
and glanced through the leaves of the limes and willows 
that were reflected — distinct as a home for the Naiads 
— beneath the limpid surface. You might hear in the 
bushes the young blackbirds trilling their first .untutored 
notes. And the graceful dragon-fly, his wings glittering 
in the translucent sunshine, darted to and fro the reeds 
gathered here and there in the mimic bays that broke the 
shelving marge of the grassy shore. 

And by that grassy shore, and beneath those shadowy 
limes, sat the young lovers. It was the very place where 
Spencer had first beheld Camilla. And now they were 
met to say “ Farewell ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


161 


“ Oh, Camilla ! ” said he, with great emotion, and eyes 
that swam in tears, “be firm — be true. You know how 
my whole life is wrapped up in your love. You go 
amidst scenes where all will tempt you to fo/get me. I 
linger behind in those which are consecrated by your 
remembrance, which will speak to me, every hour, of you. 
Camilla, since you do love me — you do — do you not? 

since you have confessed it — since your parents have 

consented to our marriage, provided only that your love 
last (for of mine there can be no doubt) for one year — 
one terrible year — shall I not trust you as truth itself? 
And yet how darkly I despair at times ! ” 

Camilla innocently took the hands that, clasped together, 
were raised to her, as if in supplication, and pressed them 
kindly between her own. 

“Do not doubt me — never doubt my affection. Has 
not my father consented ? Reflect, it is but a year’s 
delay I ” 

“A year ! — can you speak thus of a year — a whole 
year ? Not to see — not to hear you for a whole year, 
except in my dreams ! And, if at the end your parents 
waver ? Your father — I distrust him still. If this delay 
is but meant to wean you from me, — if, at the end, there 
are new excuses found, — if they then, for some cause or 
other not now foreseen, still refuse their assent ? — You — 
may I not still look to you?” 

Camilla sighed heavily ; and turning her meek face on 
her lover, said, timidly, — “Never think that so short a 
14 * 


L 


162 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


time can make me unfaithful, and do not suspect that my 
father will break his promise.” 

“ But, if he does, you will still be mine.” 

“ Ah, Charles, how could you esteem me as a wife if 
1 were to tell you I could forget I am a daughter ? ” 

This was said so touchingly, and with so perfect a 
freedom from all affectation, that her lover could only reply 
by covering her hand with his kisses. And it was not 
till after a pause that he continued passionately, — 

11 You do but show me how much deeper is my love 
than yours. You can never dream how I love you. But 
I do not ask you to love me as well — it would be impos- 
sible. My life from my earliest childhood has been passed 
in these solitudes ; — a happy life, though tranquil and 
monotonous, till you suddenly broke upon it. You seemed 
to me the living form of the very poetry I had worshipped 
— so bright — so heavenly — I loved you from the very 
first moment that, we met. I am not like other men of 
my age. I have no pursuit — no occupation — nothing 
to abstract me from your thought. And I love you so 
purely — so devotedly, Camila. I have never known even 
a passing fancy for another. You are the first — the only 
woman — it ever seemed to me possible to love. You are 
my Eve — your presence my paradise ! Think how sad 
I shall be when you are gone — how I shall visit every 
spot your footstep has hallowed —how I shall count every 
moment till the year is past ! ” 

While he thus spoke, he had risen in that restless agita- 
tion which belongs to great emotion ; and Camilla now 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


] 63 


rose also, and said, soothingly, as she laid her hand on 
his shoulder with tender but modest frankness, “And shall 
I not also think of you ? I am sad to feel that you will 
be so much alone — no sister — no brother 1 ” 

“ Do not grieve for that. The memory of you will 
be dearer to me than comfort from all else. And you 
will be true ! ” 

Camilla made no answer by words, but her eyes and 
her color spoke. And in that moment, while plighting 
eternal truth, they forgot that they were about to part ! 

Meanwhile, in a room in the house which, screened by 
the foliage, was only partially visible where the lovers 
stood, sat Mr. Robert Beaufort and Mr. Spencer. 

“I assure you, sir,” said the former, “that I am not 
insensible to the merits of your nephew, and to the very 
handsome proposals you make ; still I cannot consent to 
abridge the time I have named. They are both very 
young. What is a year ? ” 

“ It is a long time when it is a year of suspense,” said 
the recluse, shaking his head. 

“ It is a longer time when it is a year of domestic dis- 
sension and repentance. And it is a very true proverb, 
- — ‘ Marry in haste and repent at leisure. ’ No ! If at the 
end of the year the young people continue of the same 

mind, and no unforeseen circumstances occur ” 

“ No unforeseen circumstances, Mr.. Beaufort ! — that 
is a new condition — it is a very vague phrase.” 

“ My dear sir, it is hard to please you. Unforeseen 
circumstances,” said the wary father, with* a wise look, 


164 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“means circumstances that we don’t foresee at present. 
I assure you that I have no intention to trifle with you, 
and I shall be sincerely happy in so respectable a con- 
nexion.” 

“ The young people may write to each other ? ” 

“ Why, I’ll consult Mrs. Beaufort. At all events, it 
must not be very often, and Camilla is well brought up, 
and will show all the letters to her mother. I don’t much 
like a correspondence of that nature. It often leads to 
unpleasant results; if, for instance— — ” 

“ If what ? ” 

“ Why, if the parties change their minds, and my girl 
were to marry another. It is not prudent in matters of 
business, my dear sir, to put down anything on paper 
that can be avoided.” 

Mr. Spencer opened his eyes. “ Matters of business, 
Mr. Beaufort ! ” 

“Well, is not marriage a matter of business, and a 
very grave matter, too ? More lawsuits about marriage 
and settlements, &c., than I like to think of. — But to 
change the subject. You have never heard anything 
more of those young men, you say ? ” 

“ No,” said Mr. Spencer, rather inaudibly, and looking 
down. 

“And it is your firm impression that the elder one, 
Philip, is dead ? ” 

“I don’t doubt it.” 

“ That was a very vexatious and improper lawsuit 
their mother brought against me. Do you know that 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


165 


some wretched impostor, who, it appears, is a convict 
broke loose before his time, has threatened me with 
another, on the part of one of those young men. You 
never heard anything of it — eh ? ” 

“Never, upon my honor.” 

“And, of course, you would not countenance so villan- 
ous an attempt?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ Because that would break off our contract at once. 
But you are too much a gentleman and a man of honor. 
Forgive me so improper, a question. As for the younger 
Mr. Morton, I have no ill feeling against him. But the 

elder ! Oh, a thorough reprobate ! a very alarming 

character ! I could have nothing to do with any member 
of the family while the elder lived ; it would only expose 
me to every species of insult and imposition. And now 
I think we have left our young friends alone long enough. 

“ But stay, to prevent future misunderstanding, I may 
as well read over again the heads of the arrangement 
you honor me by proposing. You agree to settle your 
fortune after your decease, amounting to 23,000/., and 
your house, with twenty-five acres, one rood, and two 
poles, more or less, upon your nephew and my daughter, 

jointly remainder to their children. Certainly, without 

offence, in a worldly point of view, Camilla might do 
better ; still, you are so very respectable, and you speak 
so handsomely, that I cannot touch upon that point ; 
and I own, that though there is a large nominal rent-roll 
attached to Beaufort Court, (indeed, there is not a finer 


166 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


property in the county,) yet there are many incum- 
brances, and ready money would not be convenient to 
me. Arthur — poor fellow, a very fine young man, sir — 
is, as I have told you in perfect confidence, a little im- 
prudent and lavish ; in short, your offer to dispense with 
any dowry is extremely liberal, and proves your nephew 
is actuated by no mercenary feelings : such conduct pre- 
possesses me highly in your favor and his too.” 

Mr. Spencer bowed, and the great man rising, with a 
stiff affectation of kindly affability, put his arm into the 
uncle’s, and strolled with him across the lawn towards 
the lovers. And such is life — love on the lawn and 
settlements in the parlor 1 

The lover was the first to perceive the approach of 
the elder parties. And a change came over his face as 
he saw the dry aspect, and marked the stealthy stride, 
of his future father-in-law ; for, then, there flashed across 
him a dreary reminiscence of early childhood ; the happy 
evening when, with his joyous father, that grave and 
ominous aspect was first beheld ; and then the dismal 
burial, the funereal sables, the carriage at the door, and 
he himself clinging to the cold uncle to ask him to say a 
word of comfort to the mother who now slept far away. 

“Well, my young friend,” said Mr. Beaufort, patron- 
izingly, “ your good uncle and myself are quite agreed — 
a little time for reflection, that’s all. Oh ! I don’t think 
the worse of you for wishing to abridge it. But papas 
must be papas.” 

There was so little jocular about that sedate man. thai 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


167 


this attempt at jovial good-humor seemed liarsn and 
grating — the hinges of that wily mouth wanted oil for a 
hearty smile. 

“Come, don’t be faint-hearted, Mr. Charles. ‘Faint 
heart,’ — you know the proverb. You must stay and dine 
with us. We return to-morrow to town. I should tell 
you, that I received this morning a letter from my son 
Arthur, announcing his return from Baden, so we must 
give him the meeting — a very joyful one you may guess. 
We have not seen him these three years. Poor fellow ! 
he says he has be<m very ill, and the waters have ceased 
to do him any good. But a little quiet and country air 
at Beaufort Court will set him up, I hope.” 

Thus running on about his son, then about his shooting 
— about Beaufort Court and its splendors — about parlia- 
ment and its fatigues — about the last French Revolution, 
and the last English election — about Mrs. Beaufort, and 
her good qualities and bad health — about, in short, 
everything relating to himself, some things relating to the 
public, and nothing that related to the persons to whom 
his conversation was directed, Mr. Robert Beaufort wore 
away half an hour, when the Spencers took their leave, 
promising to return to dinner. 

Charles,” said Mr. Spencer, as the boat, which the 
young man rowed, bounded over the water towards their 
quiet home ; “ Charles, I dislike these Beauforts ! ” 

“Not the daughter?” 

“ No, she is beautiful, and seems good : not so handsome 

as your poor mother, but who ever was ? ” here Mr. 

Spencer sighed, and repeated some lines from Shenstone 


168 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Do you think Mr. Beaufort suspects in the least who 
I am?” 

“Why, that puzzles me ; I rather think he does.” 

“And that is the cause of the delay? I knew it.” 

“No, on the contrary, I incline to think he has some 
kindly feeling to you, though not to your brother, and 
that it is such a feeling that made him consent to your 
marriage. He sifted me very closely as to what I knew 
of the young Mortons — observed that you were very 
handsome, and that he had fancied at first that he had 
seen you before.” 

“ Indeed I ” 

“ Yes : and looked hard at me while he spoke ; and 
said more than once, significantly, ‘ So his name is 
Charles ? ’ He talked about some attempt at’imposture 
and litigation, but that was, evidently, merely invented to 
sound me about your brother- — whom, of course, he spoke 
ill of — impressing on me, three or four times, that he 
would never have anything to sa y to any of the family 
while Philip lived.” 

“And you told him,” said the young man hesitatingly, 
and with a deep blush of shame over his face, “ that you 

were persuad that is, that you believed Philip was — 

was ” 

“Was dead! Yes — and without confusion. For the 
more I reflect, the more I think he must be dead. At ah 
events, you may be sure that he is dead to us. that we 
shall never hear more of him.” 

“ Poor Philip ! ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 169 

“ Tour feelings are natural; they are worthy of your 
excellent heart ; but remember, what would have become 
of you if you had stayed with him ! ” 

“ True ! ” said the brother, with a slight shudder, — ‘‘a 
career of suffering — crime — perhaps, the gibbet ! Ah I 
what do I owe you ? ” 

The dinner-party at Mr. Beaufort’s that day was -con* 
strained and formal, though the host, in unusual good- 
humor, sought to make himself agreeable. Mrs. Beaufort, 
languid and afflicted with headache, said little. The two 
Spencers were yet more silent. But the younger sat 
next to her he loved ; and both hearts were full : and in 
the evening, they contrived to creep apart into a corner 
by the window, through which the starry heavens looked 
kindly on them. They conversed in whispers, with long 
pauses between each : and at times, Camilla’s tears flowed 
silently down her cheeks, and were followed by the false 
smiles intended to cheer her lover. Time did not fly, but 
crept on breathlessly and heavily. And then came the 
last parting — formal, cold — before witnesses. But the 
lover could not restrain his emotion, and the hard father 
heard his suppressed sob, as he- closed the door. 

It will now be well to explain the cause of Mr. Beau- 
fort’s heightened spirits, and the motives of his conduct 
with respect to his daughter’s suitor. 

This, perhaps, can be best done, by laying before the 
reader the following letters that passed between Mr. 
Beaufort and Lord Lilburne. 

II. — 15 


I70 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

From Lord Lilburne to Robert Beaufort, Esq., M.P 

“ Dear Beaufort, — I think I have settled, pretty 
satisfactorily, your affair with your unwelcome visitor. 
The first thing it seemed to me necessary to do, was to 
learn exactly what and who he was, and with what parties 
that could annoy you, he held intercourse. I sent for 
Sharp, the Bow-street officer, and placed him in the hall 
to mark, and afterwards to dog and keep watch on your 
new friend. The moment the latter entered, I saw at 
once, from his dress and his address, that he was a 
‘ scamp and thought it highly inexpedient to place you 
in his power by any money transactions. While talking 
with him, Sharp sent in a billet containing his recognition 
of our gentleman as a transported convict. 

“ I acted accordingly ; soon saw, from the fellow’s 
manner, that he had returned before his time ; and sent 
him away with a promise, which you may be sure he be- 
lieves will be kept, that if he molest you farther, he shall 
return to the colonies, and that if his lawsuit proceed, 
his witness or witnesses shall be indicted for conspiracy 
and perjury. Make your mind easy so far. For the 
rest, I own to you that I think what he says probable 
enough : but my object in setting Sharp to watch him, is 
to learn what other parties he sees. And if there be 
really anything formidable in his proofs or witnesses, it is 
with those parties I advise you to deal. Never transact 
business with the go-between, if you can with the princi- 
pal. Remember, the two young men are the persons to 
arrange with after all. They must be poor, and there- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. m 

fore easily dealt with. For if poor, they will think a bird 
in the hand worth two in the bush of a lawsuit. 

‘ If, through Mr. Spencer, you can learn anything of 
either of the young men, do so ; and try and open some 
channel, through which you can always establish a com- 
munication with them, if necessary. Perhaps, by learn- 
ing their early history, you may learn something to put 
them into your power. 

“ I have had a twinge of the gout this morning ; and 
am likely, I fear, to be laid up for some weeks. 

“Yours truly, 

“ Lilburne. 

“ P.S. — Sharp has just been here. He followed the 
man who calls himself ‘ Captain Smith ’ to a house in 
Lambeth, where he lodges, and from which he did not 
stir till midnight, when Sharp ceased his watch. On re- 
newing it this morning, he found that the captain had 
gone off, to what place Sharp has not yet discovered. 

“Burn this immediately.” 

From Robert Beaufort, Esq., M. P., to the Lord 
Lilburne. 

\ 

“ Dear Lilburne, — Accept my warmest thanks for 
your kindness ; you have done admirably, and I do not 
see that I have anything further to apprehend. I suspect 
that it was an entire fabrication on that man’s part, and 
your firmness has foiled his wicked designs. Only think, 
I have discovered — I am sure of it — one of the Mortons ; 

2l 


i*l 2 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

and he, too, though the younger, yet, in all probability, 
the sole pretender the fellow could set up. You remem- 
ber that the child Sidney had disappeared mysteriously, — 
you remember also, how much that Mr. Spencer had in- 
terested himself in finding out the same Sidney. Well, — 
this gentleman at the Lakes is, as we suspected, the iden- 
tical Mr. Spencer, and his soi-disant nephew, Camilla’s 
suitor, is assuredly no other than the lost Sidney. The 
moment I saw the young man I recognised him, for he is 
very little altered, and has a great look of his mother in 
the bargain. Concealing my more than suspicions, I, 
however, took care to sound Mr. Spencer (a very poor 
soul), and his manner was so embarrassed as to leave no 
doubt of the matter ; but in asking him what he had 
heard of the brothers, I had the satisfaction of learning 
that, in all human probability, the elder is dead : of this 
Mr Spencer seems convinced. I also assured myself that 
neither Spencer nor the young man had the remotest 
connexion with our Captain Smith, nor any idea of liti- 
gation. This is very satisfactory, you will allow. And 
now, I hope you will approve of what I have done. I 
find that young Morton, or Spencer, as he is called, is 
desperately enamoured of Camilla ; he seems a meek, well- 
conditioned, amiable, young man, writes poetry ; — in 
short, rather weak than otherwise. I have demanded a 
year’s delay, to allow mutual trial and reflection. This 
gives us the channel for constant information which you 
advise me to establish, and I shall have the opportunity 
to learn if the impostor makes any communication to 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


IV6 

them, or if there be any news of the brother. If by any 
trick or chicanery (for I will never believe that there was 
a marriage) a lawsuit that might be critical or hazardous 
can be cooked up, I can, I am sure, make such terms with 
Sidney, through his love for mydaughtci, as would effec- 
tively and permanently secure me from all further trouble 
and machinations in regard to my property. And if, 
during the year, we convince ourselves that, after all, 
there is not a leg of law for any claimant to stand on, I 
may be guided by other circumstances how far I shall 
finally accept or reject the suit. That must depend on 
any other views we may then form for Camilla ; and I shall 
not allow a hint of such an engagement to get abroad. 
At the worst, as Mr. Spencer’s heir, it is not so very bad 
a match, seeing that they dispense with all marriage-por- 
tion, &c. — a proof how easily they can be managed. I 
have not let Mr. Spencer see that I have discovered his 
secret } I can do that or not, according to circumstances 
hereafter ; neither have I said anything of my discovery 
to Mrs. B. or Camilla. At present, 1 least said soonest 
mended. 7 I heard from Arthur to-day. He is on his 
road home, and we hasten to town, sooner than we ex- 
pected, to meet him. He complains still of his health. 
We shall all go down to Beaufort Court. I write this at 
night, the pretended uncle and sham nephew having just 
gone. But though we start to-morrow, you will get this 
a day or two before we arrive, as Mrs. Beaufort’s health 
renders short stages necessary. I really do hope that 
Arthur, also, will not be an invalid, poor fellow ! one in 
15 * 


174 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


a family is quite enough ; and I find Mrs. Beaufort’s de- 
licacy very inconvenient, especially in moving about and 
in keeping up one’s county connexions. A young man’s 
health, however, is soon restored. I am very sorry to 
hear of your gout, except that it carries off all other 
complaints. I am very well, thank Heaven ; indeed, my 
health has been much better of late years : Beaufort 
Court agrees with- me so well 1 The more I reflect, the 
more I am astonished at the monstrous and wicked im- 
pudence of that fellow — to defraud a man out of his own 
property I You are quite right, — certainly a conspiracy. 

“ Yours truly, R. B. 

“ P. S. — I shall keep a constant eye on the Spencers. 

“Burn this immediately.” 

After he had written and sealed this letter, Mr. Beau- 
fort went to bed and slept soundly. 

And the next day that place was desolate, and the 
board on the lawn announced that it was again to be let. 
But thither daily, in rain or sunshine, came the solitary 
lover, as a bird that seeks its young in the deserted nest : 
— Again and again he haunted the spot where he had 
strayed with the lost one, — and again and again mur- 
mured his passionate vows beneath the fast-fading limes. 
Are those vows destined to be ratified or annulled ? Will 
the absent forget, or the lingerer be consoled ? Had the 
characters of that young romance been lightly stamped 
on the fancy where once obliterated they are erased for 
ever, — or were they graven deep in those tablets where 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


H5 


the writing, even when invisible, exists still, and revives, 
sweet letter by letter, when the light and the warmth 
borrowed from the One Bright Presence are applied to 
the faithful record ? There is but one Wizard to disclose 
that secret, as all others, — the old Grave-digger, whose 
Church-yard is the Earth,— whose trade is to find burial- 
places for Passions that seemed immortal, — disinterring 
the ashes of some long-crumbling Memory, — to hollow 
out the dark bed of some new-perished Hope ; — He who 
determines all things, and prophesies none, — for his ora- 
cles are uncomprehended till the doom is sealed : — He 
who in the bloom of the fairest affection detects the hectic 
that consumes it, and while the hymn rings at the altar, 
marks with his joyless eye the grave for the bridal vow. 
— Wherever is the sepulchre, there is thy temple, 0 me- 
lancholy Time I 


BOOK FIFTH. 


"ltnt> m etncS <Strom§ 0ejtal>en 
^am icf>, i)er nad) iDJorgen flop.” 

Schiller : Per Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Per ambages et ministeria deorum.” * — Petronius. 

Mr. Roger Morton was behind his counter one driz- 
zling, melancholy day. Mr. Roger Morton, alderman, 
and twice mayor of his native town, was a thriving man. 
He had grown portly and corpulent. The nightly pota- 
tions of brandy-and-water, continued year after year with 
mechanical perseverance, had deepened the roses on his 
cheek. Mr. Roger Morton was never intoxicated — he 
“only made himself comfortable.” His constitution was 
strong ; but, somehow or other, his digestion was not as 
good as it might be. He was certain that something or 
other disagreed with him. He left off the joint one day 
— the pudding another. How he avoided vegetables as 
poison — and now he submitted with a sigh to the doctor’s 
interdict of his cigar. Mr. Roger Morton never thought 
of leaving off the brandy-and-water : and he would have 

* Through the mysteries and ministenngs of the gods. 

( 176 ) 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


m 


resented as the height of impertinent insinuation anj 
hint upon that score to a man of so sober and respect- 
able a character. 

Mr. Roger Morton was seated — for the last four years, 
ever since his second mayoralty, he had arrogated to him- 
self the dignity of a chair. He received rather than 
served his customers. The latter task was left to two of 
his sons. For Tom, after much cogitation, the profes- 
sion of an apothecary had been selected. Mrs. Morton 
observed, that it was a genteel business, and Tom had 
always been a likely lad. And Mr. Roger considered 
that it would be a great comfort and a great saving to 
have his medical adviser in his own son. 

The other two sons, and the various attendants of the 
shop, were plying the profitable trade, as customer after 
customer, with umbrellas and in pattens, dropped into 
the tempting shelter — when a man, meanly dressed, and 
who was somewhat past middle age, with a care-wor^ 
hungry face, entered timidly. He waited in patience by 
the crowded counter, elbowed by sharp-boned and eager 
spinsters — and how sharp the elbows of spinsters are, no 
man can tell who has not forced his unwelcome way 
through the agitated groups in a linendraper’s shop ! — 
the man, I say, waited patiently and sadly, till the smallest 
of the shop-boys turned from a lady, who, after much 
sorting and shading, had finally decided on two yards of 
lilac-colored penny riband, and asked, in an insinuating 
professional tone — 

“ Wnat shall I show you, sir?” 

15 * 


M 


ITS NIGHT AND MORNING. 

“ 1 wish to speak to Mr. Morton. Which is he ? ” 

“ Mr. Morton is engaged, sir. I can give you what 
you want.” 

“ No — it is a matter of business — important business.” 

The boy eyed the napless and dripping hat, the glove- 
less hands, and the rusty neckcloth of the speaker ; and 
said, as he passed his fingers through a profusion of light 
curls, — 

“Mr. Morton don’t attend much -to business himself 
now ; but that’s he. Any cravats, sir ? ” 

The man made no answer, but moved where, near the 
window, and chatting with the banker of the town (as 
the banker tried on a pair of beaver gloves), sat still — 
after due apology for sitting — Mr. Roger Morton. 

The alderman lowered his spectacles as he glanced 
grimly at the lean apparition that shaded the spruce 
banker, and said, — 

“ Do you want me, friend ? ” 

“Yes, sir, if you please ; ” and the man took off his 
shabby hat, and bowed low. 

“ Well, speak out. No begging petition, I hope ? ” 

“No, sir 1 Your nephews ” 

The banker turned round, and in his turn eyed the new 
comer. The linendraper started back. 

“Nephews!” he repeated, with a bewildered look. 
“What does the man mean? Wait a bit.’ 

“Oh, I’ve done !” said the banker, smiling. “I am 
glad to find we agree so well upon this question : I knew 
we should Our member will never suit us if he goes on 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


179 


in this way Trade must take care of itself. Good day 
to you ! ” 

“ Nephews ! ” repeated Mr, Morton, rising, and beckon- 
ing to the man to follow him into the back parlor, where 
Mrs. Morton sat casting up the washing bills. 

“ Now,” said the husband, closing the door, “ what de 
you mean, my good fellow ? ” 

11 Sir, what I wish to ask you is — if you can tell me 

what has become of — of the young Beau , — that is, 

of your sister’s sons. I understand there were two — 
and I am told that-^that they are both dead. Is it so ?” 

“ What is that to you, friend ? ” 

“An please you, sir, it is a great deal to them / ” 

“Yes — ha! ha! — it is a great deal to everybody 
whether they are alive or dead ! ” Mr. Morton, since he 
nad been mayor, now and then had his joke. “ But 
really ” 

“ Roger ! ” said Mrs. Morton, under her breath, — 
“ Roger ! ” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“ Come this way — I want to speak to you about this 
bill.” The husband approached, and bent over his wife. 
“Who’s this man?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Depend on it, he has some claim to make — some bills, 
or something. Don’t commit yourself — the boys are dead 
for what we know ! ” 

Mr. Morton hemmed, and returned to his visitor. 

“To tell you the. truth, I am not aware of what ha? 
become of the young men.” 


180 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Then they are not dead — I thought not ! ” exclaimed 
the man, joyously. 

“ That’s more than I can say. It’s many years since 
I lost sight of the only one I ever saw ; and they may 
be both dead for what I know.” 

“ Indeed 1 ” said the man. “ Then you can give me no 
kind of — of — hint like, to find them out?” 

“No. Do they owe you anything?” 

“It does not signify talking now, sir. I beg your 
pardon.” 

“ Stay — who are you ? ” 

“I am a very poor man, sir.” 

Mr. Morton recoiled. 

“ Poor I Oh, very well — very well. You have done 
with me now. Good day — good day. I’m busy.” 

The stranger pecked for a moment at his hat — turned 
the handle of the door — peered under his grey eye-brows 
at the portly trader, who, with both hands buried in his 
pockets, his mouth pursed up, like a man about to say 
“No” — fidgeted uneasily behind Mrs. Morton’s chair. 
He sighed, shook his head, and vanished. 

Mrs. Morton rang the bell — the maid-servant entered. 

“ Wipe the carpet, Jenny ; — dirty feet ! Mr. Morton, 
— it’s a Brussels ! ” 

“ It was not mv fault, my dear. I could not talk about 
family matters before the whole shop. Do you know, I’d 
quite forgot those poor boys. This unsettles me. Poor 
Catherine i she was so fond of them. A pretty boy that 
Sidney, too. What can have become of them ? My 
heart rebukes me. I wish I had asked the man more.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


181 


“More! — why he was just going to beg.” 

“ Beg — yes — very true ! ” said Mr. Morton, pausing 
irresolutely ; and then, with a hearty tone, he cried out, 
— “And, damme, if he had begged, I could afford him a 
shilling! I’ll go after him.” So saying, he hastened 
back through the shop, but the man was gone — the rain 
was falling — Mr. Morton had his thin shoes on — he blew 
his nose, and went back to the counter. But, there, still 
rose to his memory the pale face of his dead sister ; and a 
voice murmured in his ear, “ Brother, where is my child ? ” 
“ Pshaw ! it is not my fault if he ran away. Bob, go 
and get me the county paper.” 

Mr. Morton had again settled himself, and was deep in 
a trial for murder, when another stranger strode haughtily 
into the shop. The new-comer, wrapped in a pelisse of 
furs, with a thick moustache, and an eye that took in the 
whole shop, from master to boy, from ceiling to floor, in 
a glance, had the air at once of a foreigner and a soldier. 
Every look fastened on him, as he paused an instant, and 
then walking up to the alderman, said, — 

“ Sir, you are doubtless Mr. Morton ? ” 

“ At your commands, sir,” said Roger, rising involun- 
tarily. 

“A word with you, then, on business.” 

“ Business ! ” echoed Mr. Morton, turning rather pale, 
for he began to think himself haunted ; “ anything in my 

line, sir ? I should be ” 

The stranger bent down his tall stature, and hissed into 
Mr Morton’s foreboding ear, — 

II —16 


182 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Your nephews !” 

Mr. Morton was literally dumb-stricken. Yes, he cer- 
tainly was haunted 1 He stared at this second questioner, 
and fancied that there was something very supernatural 
and unearthly about him. He was so tall, and so dark, 
and so stern, and so strange. Was it the Unspeakable 
himself come for the linen-draper ? Nephews again ! 
The uncle of the babes in the wood could hardly have 
been more startled by the demand ! 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Morton at last, recovering his dignity 
and somewhat peevishly, — “ sir, I don’t know why people 
should meddle with my family affairs. I don’t ask other 
folks about their nephews. I have no nephew that I 
know of.” 

“Permit me to speak to you, alone, for one instant.” 

Mr. Morton sighed, hitched up his trowsers, and led 
the way to the parlor, where Mrs. Morton, having finished 
the washing bills, was now engaged in tying certain pieces 
of bladder round certain pots of preserves. The eldest 
Miss Morton, a young woman of five or six-and-twenty, 
who was about to be very advantageously married to a 
young gentleman who dealt in coals and played the violin 

(for N was a very musical town), had just joined her 

for the purpose of extorting “ The Swiss Boy, with varia- 
tions,” out of a sleepy little piano, that emitted a very 
painful cry under the awakening fingers of Miss Margaret 
Morton. 

Mr. Morton threw open the door with a grunt, and the 
stranger pausing at the threshold, the full flood of sound 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


183 


(key C) upon which “ the Swiss Boy” was swimming 
along, “ kine ” and all. for life and death, came splash 
upon him. 

“Silence! can’t you?” cried the father, putting one 
hand to his ear, while with the other he pointed to a 
chair ; and as Mrs. Morton looked up from the preserves 
with that air of indignant suffering with which female 
meekness upbraids a husband’s wanton outrage, Mr. 
Roger added, shrugging his shoulders, — 

“My nephews again, Mrs. M. !” 

Miss Margaret turned round, and dropped a courtesy. 
Mrs. Morton gently let fall a napkin over the preserves, 
and muttered a sort of salutation, as the stranger, taking 
off his hat, turned to mother and daughter one of those 
noble faces in which Nature has written her grant and 
warranty of the lordship of creation. 

“ Pardon me,” he said, “ if I disturb you. But my 
business will be short. I have come to ask you, sir, 
frankly, and as one who has a right to ask it, what 
tidings you can give me of Sidney Morton?” 

“ Sir, I know nothing whatever about him. He was 
taken from my house, about twelve years since, by his 
brother. Myself, and the two Mr. Beauforts, and another 
friend of the family, went in search of them both. My 
search failed.” 

“And theirs ? ” 

“ I understood from Mr. Beaufort that they had not 
been more successful. I have had no communication with 
those gentlemen since. But that’s neither here nor there. 


184 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


En all probability, the elder of the boys, — who, I fear, 
was a sad character, — corrupted and ruined his brother; 
and, by this time Heaven knows what and where they 
are.” 

“And no one has inquired of you since — no one has 
asked the brother of Catherine Morton, nay, rather of 
Catherine Beaufort — where is the child intrusted to your 
care ? ” 

This question, so exactly similar to that which his 
superstition had rung on his own ears, perfectly appalled 
the worthy alderman. He staggered back — stared at 
the marked and stern face that lowered upon him — and 
at last cried, — 

“For pity’s sake, sir, be just ! What could I do for 
one who left me of his own accord ? ” 

“ The day you had beaten him like a dog. You see, 
Mr. Morton, I know all.” 

“ And what are you ? ” said Mr. Morton, recovering 
his English courage, and feeling himself strangely brow- 
beaten in his own house ; — “ What and who are you, that 
you thus take the liberty to catechise a man of my cha- 
racter and respectability ? ” 

“Twice mayor ” began Mrs. Morton. 

“ Hush, mother !” whispered Miss Margaret, — “don’t 
work him up.” 

“I repeat, sir, what are you?” 

“ What am I ? — your nephew 1 Who am I ? Before 
men, I bear a name that I have assumed, and not disho- 
nored — before Heaven, I am Philip Beaufort I” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


185 


Mrs. Morton dropped down upon her stool. Margaret 
murmured “ My cousin !” in a tone that the ear of the 
musical coal-merchant might not have greatly relished. 
And Mr. Morton, after a long pause, came up with a 
frank and manly expression of joy, and said, — 

“ Then, sir, I thank Heaven, from my heart, that one 
of my sister’s children stands alive before me ! ” 

“And now, again, I — I whom you accuse of having 
corrupted and ruined him — to for whom I toiled and 
worked — him, who was to me, then, as a last surviving 
son to some anxious father — I, from whom he was reft 
and robbed — I ask you again for Sidney — for my 
brother ! ” 

“ And again, I say, that I have no information to give 
you — that— Stay a moment — stay. You must pardon 
what I have said of you before you made yourself known. 
I went but by the accounts I had received from Mr. Beau- 
fort. Let me speak plainly; that gentleman thought, 
right or wrong, that it would be a great thing to seperate 
your brother from you. He may have found him — it 
must be so — and kept his name and condition concealed 
from us all, lest you should detect it. Mrs. M., don’t you 
think so ? ” 

“ I’m sure I’m so terrified I don’t know what to think,” 
said Mrs. Morton, putting her hand to her forehead, and 
see-sawing herself to and fro upon her stool. 

“But since they wronged you — since you — you seem 
bo very — very ” 

“ Very much the gentleman,” suggested Miss Margaret 
6 * 


* 


180 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Yes, so much the gentleman ; — well off, too, I should 
hope, sir,” — and the experienced eye of Mr. Morton 
glanced at the costly sables that lined the pelisse — 
“ There can be no difficulty in your learning from Mr. 
Beaufort all that you wish to know. And pray, sir, may 
I ask, did you send any one here to-day to make the very 
Inquiry you have made ? ” 

“I — No. What do you mean?” 

“Well, well — sit down — there may be something in 
all this that you may make out better than I can.” 

And as Philip obeyed, Mr. Morton, who was really 
and honestly rejoiced to see his sister’s son alive and 
apparently thriving, proceeded to relate pretty exactly 
the conversation he had held with the previous visitor. 
Philip listened earnestly and with attention. Who could 
this questioner be ? Some one who knew his birth — 
some one who sought him out? — some one, who — Good 
Heavens ! could it be the long-lost witness of the marriage ? 

As soon as that idea struck him, he started from his 
seat, and entreated Morton to accompany him in search 
of the stranger. “You know not,” he said, in a tone 
impressed with that energy of will in which lay the talent 
of his mind, — “ You know not of what importance this 
may be to my prospects — to your sister’s fair name. 
If it should be the witness returned at last ! Who else, 
of the rank you describe, would be interested in such in- 
quiries ? Come ! ” 

“ What witness ? ” said Mrs. Morton fretfully. “ You 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


187 


don’t mean to come over us with the old story of the 
marriage ? ” 

“ Shall your wife slander your own sister, sir ? A 
marriage there was — God yet will proclaim the right — 
and the name of Beaufort shall be yet placed on my 
mother’s grave-stone. Come ! ” 

“Here are your shoes and umbrella, pa,” cried Miss 
Margaret, inspired by Philip’s earnestness. 

“My fair cousin, I guess,” and as the soldier took her 
hand, he kissed the uureluctant cheek — turned to the 
door — Mr. Morton placed his arm in his, and the next 
moment they were in the street. 

When Catherine, in her meek tones, had said, “ Philip 
Beaufort was my husband,” Roger Morton had dis- 
believed her. And now one word from the son, who 
could, in comparison, know so little of the matter, had 
almost sufficed to convert and to convince the sceptic. 

Why was this ? Because — Man believes the Strong 1 
2m 


iS8 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Quid Virtus et quid Sapientia possit 

Utile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulyssem .* — Hon. 

Meanwhile the object of their search, on quitting 
Mr. Morton’s shop, had walked slowly and sadly on, 
through the plashing streets, till he came to a public- 
house in the outskirts and on the high road to London. 
Here he took shelter for a short time, drying himself by 
the kitchen fire, with the license purchased by fourpenny-. 
worth of gin ; and having learned that the next coach to 
London would not pass for some hours, he finally settled 
himself in the ingle, till the guard’s horn should arouse 
him. By the same coach that the night before had con- 
veyed Philip to N , had the very man he sought been 

also a passenger 1 

The poor fellow was sickly and wearied out : he had 
settled into a doze, when he was suddenly wakened by 
the wheels of a coach and the trampling of horses. Not 
knowing how long he had slept, and imagining that the 
vehicle he had awaited was at the door, he ran out. It 
was a coach coming from London, and the driver was 
joking with a pretty bar-maid, who, in rather short pet- 


* “He has proposed to us Ulysses as a useful example of ho^r 
much may be accomplished by Virtue and Wisdom.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


189 


ticoats, was holding up to him the customary glass The 
man, after satisfying himself that his time was not yet 
come, was turning back to the fire, when a head popped 
itself out of the window, and a voice cried, — “ Stars and 
garters I Will — so that’s you ! ” At the sound of the 
voice the man halted abruptly, turned very pale, and his 
limbs trembled. The inside passenger opened the door, 
jumped out with a little carpet-bag in his hand, took 
forth a long leathern purse from which he ostentatiously 
selected the coins that paid his fare and satisfied the 
coachman, and then, passing his arm through that of the 
acquaintance he had discovered, led him back into the 
house. 

“Will — Will,” he whispered, “you have been to the 
Mortons. Never moind — let’s hear all. Jenny or Dolly, 
or whatever your sweet praetty name is — a private room 
and a pint of brandy, my dear. Hot water and lots of 
the grocery. That’s right.” 

And as soon as the pair found themselves, with the 
brandy before them, in a small parlor with a good fire, 
.he last comer went to the door, shut it cautiously, flung 
his bag under the table, took off his gloves, spread him- 
self wider and wider before the fire, until he had entirely 
excluded every ray from his friend, and then suddenly 
turning so that the back might enjoy what the front had 
gained, he exclaimed, 

“ Damme, Will, you’re a praetty sort of a broather to 
give me the slip in that way. But in this world, every 
man for his-self 1 ” 


190 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ I tell you,” said William, with something like decision 
in his voice, “ that I will not do any wrong to these young 
men if they live.” 

“ Who asks you to do a wrong to them ? — booby 1 — 
Perhaps 1 may be the best friend they may have yet — 
ay, or you too, though you’re the ungratefullest whimsi- 
callest sort of a son of a gun that ever I came across. 
Come, help yourself, and don’t roll up your eyes in that 
way, like a Muggletonian asoide of a Fye-Fye ! ” 

Here the speaker paused a moment, and with a graver 
*nd more natural tone of voice proceeded. 

“ So you did not believe me when I told you that these 
brothers were dead, and you have been to the Mortons 
to learn more ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, and what have you learned ? ” 

“Nothing. Morton declares that he does not know 
that they are alive, but he says also that he does not 
know that they are dead.” 

“Indeed,” said the other, listening with great at- 
tention ; “ and you really think that he does not know 
anything about them ? ” 

“I do, indeed.” 

“ Hum ! Is he a sort of man who would post down 
the rhino to help the search ? ” 

“ He looked as if he had the yellow fever when I said 
I was poor,” returned William, turning round, and trying 
to catch a glimpse at the lire, as he gulped his brandy- 
and-water. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


101 


“ Then I’ll be d — d if I run the risk of calling. I have 
done some things in this town by way of business before 
now ; and though it’s a long time ago, yet folks don’t 
forget a haundsome man in a hurry — especially if he has 
done ’em! Now, then, listen to me. You see, I have 
given this matter all the ’tention in my power. ‘ If the 
lads be dead,’ said I to you, ‘it is no use burning one’s 
fingers by holding a candle to bones in a coffin. But 
Mr. Beaufort need not know they are dead, and we’ll see 
what we can get out of him ; and if I succeeds, as I think 
I shall, you and I may hold up our heads for the rest of 
our life.’ Accordingly, as I told you, I went to Mr. 
Beaufort, and — ’Gad, I thought we had it all our own 
way. But since I saw you last, there’s been the devil 
and all. When I called again, Will, I was shown in to 
an old lord, sharp as a gimblet. Hang me, William, if 
he did not frighten me out of my seven senses ! ” 

Here Captain Smith (the reader has, no doubt, already 
discovered that the speaker was no less a personage) 
took three or four nervous strides across the room, re- 
turned to the table, threw himself in a chair, placed one 
foot on one hob, and one on the other, laid his finger on 
his nose, and, with a significant wink, said in a whisper 
— “ Will, he knew I had been lagged ! He not only re- 
fused to hear all I had to say, but threatened to prosecute 
• — persecute, hang, draw, and quarter us both, if we ever 
dared to come out with the truth.” 

“ But what’s the good of the truth if the boys are 
dead ? ” said William, timidly 


192 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


The Captain, without heeding this question, continued, 
as he stirred the sugar in his glass, “ Well, but I sneaked, 
and as soon as I had got to my own door I turned round 
and saw Sharp the runner on the other side of the way — • 
I felt deuced queer. However, I went in, sat down, and 
began to think. I saw that it was up with us, so far as 
the old uns were concerned ; and now it might be worth 
while to find out if the young ’uns really were dead.” 

“ Then you did not know that after all ! I thought so. 
Oh, Jerry ! ” 

“Why, look you, man, it was not our interest to take 
their side if we could make our bargain out of the other. 
— ’Cause why ? You are only om witness — you are a 
good fellow, but poor, and with very shaky nerves, Will. 
You does not know what them big wigs are when a man’s 
caged in a witness-box— they flank one up, and they flank 
one down, and they bully and bother, till one’s like a 
horse at Astley’s dancing on hot iron. If your testimony 
broke down, why it would be all up with the case, and 
what then would become of us ? Besides,” added the 
captain, with dignified candor, “ I have been lagged, it’s 
no use denying it ; I am back before my time. Inquiries 
about your respectability would soon bring the bulkies 
about me. And you would not have poor Jerry sent 
back to that d — d low place on t’ other side of the Her- 
ring-pond, would you ? ” 

“ Ah, Jerry ! ” said William, kindly placing his hand 
in his brother’s, “ you know I helped you to escape ; I 
left all to come over with you.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


193 


“ So you did, and you’re a good fellow ; though as to 
leaving all , why you had got rid of all first. And when 
you told me about the marriage, did not I say that I saw 
our way to a snug thing for life ? But to return to my 
story. There is a danger in going with the youngsters. 
But since, Will, — since nothing but hard words is to be 
got on the other side, we’ll do our duty, and I’ll find 
them out, and do the best I can for us — that is, if they 
be yet above ground.. And now I’ll own to you that I 
think I knows that the younger one is alive.” 

“You do?” 

“ Yes 1 But as he won’t come in for anything unless 
his brother is dead, we must have a hunt for the heir. 
Now I told you that, many years ago, there was a lad 
with me, who, putting all things together — seeing how 
the Beauforts came after him, and recollecting different 
things he let out at the time — I feel pretty sure is your 
old master’s Hopeful. I know that poor Will Gawtrey 
gave this lad the address of old Gregg, a friend of mine. 
So after watching Sharp off the sly, I went that very 
night, or rather at two in the morning, to Gregg’s house, 
and, after brushing up his memory, I found that the lad 
had been to him, and gone over afterwards to Paris in 
search of Gawtrey, who was then keeping a matrimony 
shop. As I was not rich enough to go off to Paris in a 
pleasant, gentleman-like way, I allowed Gregg to put me 
up to a noice, quiet, little bit of business. Don’t shake 
your head — all safe — a rural affair! That took some 
days. You see it has helped to new rig me,” and the 
II— It N 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


194 

captain glanced complacently over a very smart suit of 
clothes. “ Well, on my return I went to call on you, but 
you were flown. I half suspected you might have gone 
to the mother’s relations here ; and I thought, at all 
events, that I could not do better than go myself and see 
what they knew of the matter. From what you say, I 
feel I had better now let that alone, and go over to Paris 
at once ; leave me alone to find out. And faith, what 
with Sharp and the old lord, the sooner I quit England 
the better.” 

“ And you really think you shall get hold of them after 
all ? Oh, never fear my nerves if I’m once in the right ; 
it’s living with you, and seeing you do wrong, and hear- 
ing you talk wickedly, that makes me tremble.” 

“Bother ! ” said the Captain, “you need not crow over 
me. Stand up, Will ; there now, look at us two in the 
glass ! Why, I look ten years younger than you do, in 
spite of all my troubles. I dress like a gentleman, as I 
am ; I have money in my pocket ; I put money in yours ; 
without me you’d starve. Look you, you carried over a 
little fortune to Australia — you married — you farmed 
— you lived honestly, and yet that d — d shilly-shally dis- 
position of yours, ’ticed into one speculation to-day, and 
scared out of another to-morrow, ruined you ! ” 

“Jerry! Jerry!” cried William, writhing; “don’t — 
don’t.” 

“But it’s all true, and I wants to cure you of preaching 
And then, when you were nearly run out, instead of 
putting a bold face on it, and setting your shoulder to 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


195 


the wheel, you gives it up — you sells what you have — 
you bolts over, wife and all, to Boston, because some one 
tells you you can do better in America — you are out of 
the way when a search is made for you — years ago when 
you could have benefited yourself and your master’s 
family without any danger to you or me — nobody can 
find you ; ’cause why, you could not bear that your old 
friends in England, or in the colony either, should know 
that you were turned a slave-driver in Kentucky. You 
kick up a mutiny among the niggars by moaning over 
them, instead of keeping ’em to it — you get kicked out 
yourself — your wife begs you to go back to Australia, 
where her relations will do something for you — you work 
your passage out, looking as ragged as a colt from grass 

— wife’s uncle don’t like ragged nephews-in-law — wife 
dies broken-hearted — and you might be breaking stones 
on the roads with the convicts, if I, myself a convict, had 
not taken compassion on you. Don’t cry, Will, it is all 
for your own good — I hates cant ! Whereas I, my own 
master from eighteen, never stooped to serve any other — 
have dressed like a gentleman — kissed .the pretty girls 

— drove my pheaton — been in all the papers as ‘the 
celebrated Dashing Jerry’ — never wanted a guinea in my 
pocket, and even when lagged at last, had a pretty little 
sum in the colonial bank to lighten my misfortunes. I 
escape — I bring you over — and here I am, supporting 
you, and, in all probability, the one on whom depends 
the fate of one of the first families in the country. And 
you preaches at me, do you? Look you, Will; — .in 


196 


night and morning. 


this world, honesty’s nothing without force of character ! 
And so your health ! ” 

Here the Captain*emptied the rest of the brandy into 
his glass, drained it at a draught, and, while poor William 
was wiping his eyes with a ragged blue pocket-handker- 
chief, rang the bell, and asked what coaches would pass 

that way to , a seaport town, at some distance. On 

hearing that there was one at six o’clock, the Captain 
ordered the best dinner the larder would afford to be got 
ready as soon as possible ; and, when they were again 
alone, thus accosted his brother — 

Now you go back to town — here are four shiners 
for you. Keep quiet— -don’t speak to a soul — don’t 
put your foot in it, that’s all I beg, and I’ll find out 
whatever there is to be found. It is damnably out of my 

way embarking at , but I had best keep clear of 

Lunnon. And I tell you what, if these youngsters have 
hopped the twig, there’s another bird on the bough that 
may prove a goldfinch after all ; — Young Arthur Beau- 
fort : — I hear he is a wild, expensive chap, and one who 
can’t live without lots of money. Now, it’s easy to 
frighten a man of that sort, and I sha’n’t have the old lord 
at his elbow.” 

“But I tell you, that I only care for my poor master’s 
children.” 

Yes ; but if they are dead, and by saying they are 
alive one can make old age comfortable, there’s no harm 
in it — eh?” 

I don’t know,” said William, irresolutely. “But- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


191 


certainly it is a hard thing to be so poor at mv time of 
life ; and so honest a man as I’ve been, too ! ” 

Captain Smith went a little too far when he said that 
honesty’s nothing without force of character.” Still 
Honesty has no business to be helpless and draggletailed ; 
— she must be active and brisk, and make use of her wits ; 
or, though she keep clear of the prison, ’tis no very great 
wonder if she fall on the parish. 


r • 

CHAPTER III. 

“ Mi tis. — This Macilente, signior, begins to be more sociable 
on a sudden. ” — Every Man out of his Humor. 

“Punt. — Signior, you are sufficiently instructed. 

Fast. — Who, I, sir ? ” — Ibid. 

After spending the greater part of the day in vain in- 
quiries and a vain search, Philip and Mr. Morton returned 
to the house of the latter. 

“ And now,” said Philip, “ all that remains to be done 
is this ; first, give to the police of the town a detailed 
description of the man ; and secondly, let us put an ad- 
vertisement both in the county journal and in some of the 
London papers, to the effect, that if the person who called 
on you will take the trouble to apply again, either per- 
sonally or by letter, he may obtain the information sought 
for. In case he does, I will trouble you to direct him to 

yes — to Monsieur de Yaudemont, according to 

address.” 

17 * 


198 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Not to you, then ?» 

“It is the same thing,” replied Philip, drily. “You 
have confirmed my suspicions, that the Beauforts know 
something of my brother. What did you say of some 
other friend of the family who assisted in the search ? ” 

“ Oh, — a Mr. Spencer ! an old acquaintance of your 
mother’s. ” Here Mr. Morton smiled, but not being encour- 
aged in a joke, went on, — “However, that’s neither here 
nor there ; he certainly never found out your brother. 
For I have had several letters from him at different times, 
asking if any news had been heard of either of you.” 

And, indeed, Spencer had taken peculiar pains to de- 
ceive the Mortons, whose interposition he feared little less 
than that of the Beauforts. 

“ Then it can be of no use to apply to him,” said 
Philip, carelessly, not having any recollection of the 
name of Spencer, and therefore attaching little importance 
to the mention of him. 

“Certainly, I should think not. Depend on it, Mr. 
Beaufort must know.” 

“ True,” said Philip. “ And I have only to thank you 
for your kindness, and return to town.” 

“ But stay with us this day — do — let me feel that we 
are friends. I assure you, poor Sidney’s fate has been a 
load on my mind ever since he left. You shall have the 
bed he slept in, and over which your mother bent when 
she left: him and me for the last time.” 

These words were said with so much feeling, that the 
adventurer wrung his uncle’s hand, and said, “Forgive 
me, I wronged you — I will be your guest.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


199 


Mrs. Morton, strange to say, evinced no symptoms of 
ill-humor at the news of the proffered hospitality. In 
fact, Miss Margaret had been so eloquent in Philip’s 
praise during his absence, that she suffered herself to be 
favorably impressed. Her daughter, indeed, had obtained 
a sort of ascendency over Mrs. M. and the whole house^ 
ever since she had received so excellent an offer. And 
moreover, some people are like dogs — they snarl at the 
ragged and fawn on the well-dressed. Mrs. Morton did 
not object to a nephew de facto, she only objected to a 
nephew in forma, pauperis. The evening, therefore 
passed more cheerfully than might have been anticipated, 
though Philip found some difficulty in parrying the many 
questions put to him on the past. He contented himself 
with saying, as briefly as possible, that he had served in 
a foreign service, and acquired what sufficed him for an 
independence ; and then, with the ease which a man picks 
up in the great world, turned the conversation to the 
prospects of the family whose guest he was. Having 
listened with due attention to Mrs. Morton’s eulogies on 
Tom, who had been sent for, and who drank the praises 
on his own gentility into a very large pair of blushing ears, 
— also, to her self-felicitations on Miss Margaret’s mar- 
riage, — item , on the service rendered to the town by Mr. 
lloger, who had repaired the town-hall in his first 
mayoralty at his own expense, — item, to a long chronicle 
of her own genealogy, how she had one cousin a clergy- 
man, and how her great-grandfather had been knighted, 
>—item, to the domestic virtues of all her children, — 


200 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


item, to a confused explanation of the chastisement inflicted 
on Sidney, which Philip cut short in the middle ; he asked, 
with a smile, what had become of the Plaskwiths. “ Oh ! ’ 
said Mrs. Morton, “ my brother Kit has retired from 
business. His son-in-law, Mr. Plimmins, has succeeded. ” 
“ Oh, then, Plimmins married one* of the young ladies ? ” 
“Yes, Jane — she had a sad squint!— Tom, there i? 
nothing to laugh at — we are all as God made us — ‘ Hand 
some is as handsome does ,’ — she has had three little uns I ” 
“ Do they squint too ? v asked Philip ; and Miss Mar- 
garet giggled, and Tom roared, and the other young men 
roared too. Philip had certainly said something very witty. 

This time Mrs. Morton administered no reproof ; but 
replied, pensively, — 

“ Natur is very mysterious — they all squint ! ” 

Mr. Morton conducted Philip to his chamber. There 
it was, fresh, clean, unaltered — the same white curtains, 
the same honeysuckle paper, as when Catherine had crept 
across the threshold. 

“Did Sidney ever tell you that his mother placed a 
ring round his neck that night ? ” asked Mr. Morton. 

“Yes; and the dear boy wept when he said that he 
had slept too soundly to know that she was by his side 
that last, last time. The ring — oh, how well I remember it ! 

she never put it off till then ; and often in the fields — 

for we were wild wanderers together in that day — often 
when his head lay on my shoulder, I felt that ring still 
resting on his heart, and fancied it was a talisman - - a 
blessing. Well, well — good night to you l ” And he 
shut the door on his uncle, and was alone. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


201 


CHAPTER IT. 

“ The Man of Law, * * * 

And a great suit is like to be between them.” 

BenJonsox: Staple of Neivs. 

On arriving in London, Philip went first to the lodging 
he still kept there, and to which his letters were directed ; 
and, among some communications from Paris, full of the 
politics and the hopes of the Carlists, he found the 
following note from Lord Lilburne. 

“ Dear Sir : — When I met you the other day, I told 
you I had been threatened with the gout The enemy 
has now taken possession of the field. I am sentenced 
to regimen and the sofa. But as it is my rule in life -to 
make afflictions as light as possible, so I have asked a 
few friends to take compassion on me, and help me ‘to 
shuffle olf this mortal coil,’ by dealing me, if they can, 
four by honors. Any time between nine and twelve to- 
night, or to-morrow night, you will find me at home ; and 
if you are not better engaged, suppose you dine with me 
to-day — or rather dine opposite to me — and excuse 
my Spartan broth. You will meet (besides any two or 
/ three friends whom an impromptu invitation may find 
disengaged) my sister, with Beaufort and their daughter : 
they only arrived in town this morning, and are kind 
17 * 


202 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


enough 1 to nurse me,’ as they call it — that is to say, 
their cook is taken ill ! 

“ Yours, 

“ Lilburne. 

“ Park Lane, Sept. ” 

“ The Beauforts ! Fate favors me — I will go. The 
date is for to-day.” 

He sent off a hasty line to accept the invitation, and 
finding he had a few hours yet to spare, he resolved to 
employ them in consultation with some lawyer as to the 
chances of ultimately regaining his inheritance — a hope 
which, however wild, he had, since his return to his 
native shore, and especially since he had heard of the 
strange visit made to Roger Morton, permitted himself 
to indulge. With this idea he sallied out, meaning to 
consult Liancourt, who, having a large acquaintance 
among the English, seemed the best person to advise 
him as to the choice of a lawyer at once active and 
honest — when he suddenly chanced upon that gentleman 
himself. 

“ This is lucky, my dear Liancourt. I was just going 
to your lodgings.” 

“And I was coming to yours to know if you dine with 
Lord Lilburne. He told me he had asked you. I have 
just left him. And by the sofa of Mephistopheles, there 
was the prettiest Margaret you ever beheld.” 

“ Indeed ! — Who ? ” 

“ He called her his niece ; but I should doubt if he had 
any relation on this side the Styx so human as a niece.” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


203 


“You seem to have no great predilection for our host.” 

“ My dear Yaudemont, between our blunt, soldierly 
natures, and those wily, icy, sneering intellects, there is 
the antipathy of the dog to the cat.” 

“ Perhaps so on our side, not on his — or why does he 
invite us */ ” 

“ London is empty, there is no one else to ask. We 
are new faces, new minds to him. We amuse him more 
than the hackneyed comrades he has worn out. Besides, 
he plays — and you too. Fie on you ! ” 

“ Liancourt, I had two objects in knowing that man, 
and I pay the toll for the bridge. When I cease to want 
the passage, I shall cease to pay the toll.” 

“ But the bridge may be a draw-bridge, and the moat 
is devilish deep below. Without metaphor, that man 
may ruin you before you know where you are.” 

“ Bah ! I have my eyes open. I know how much to 
spend on the rogue, whose service I hire as a lackey’s ; 
and I know also where to stop. Liancourt,” he added, 
after a short pause, and in a tone deep with suppressed 
passion, “when I first saw that man, I thought of ap- 
pealing to his heart for one who has a claim on it. That 
was a vain hope. And then there came upon me a 
sterner and deadlier thought — the scheme of the Avenger ! 
This Lilburne — this rogue whom the world sets up to 
worship — ruined, body and soul ruined — one whose name 
the world gibbets with scorn ! Well, I thought to avenge 
that man. In his own house— amidst you all— I thought 

to detect the sharper, and brand the cheat ! ” 

2n 


204 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“You startle me! — It has been whispered, indeed, 
that Lord Lilburne is dangerous, — but skill is dangerous. 
To cheat ! — an English gentleman ! — a nobleman ! — 
impossible ! ” 

“Whether he do or not,” returned Vaudemont, in a 
calmer tone, “ I have foregone the vengeance, because he 
is ” 

“ Is what ? ” 

“No matter,” said Yaudemont aloud, but he added to 
himself, — “ Because he is the grandfather of Fanny ! ” 

“You are very enigmatical to-day.” 

“ Patience, Liancourt ; I may solve all the riddles that 
make up my life, yet. Bear with me a little longer. And 
now can you help me to a lawyer ?■ — a man experienced, 
indeed, and of repute, but young, active, not overladen 
with business ; — I want his zeal and his time, for a 
hazard that your monopolists of clients may not deem 
worth their devotion.” 

“ I can recommend you, then, the very man you require. 
I had a suit some years ago at Paris, for which English 
witnesses were necessary. My avocat employed a 
solicitor here whose activity in collecting my evidence 
gained my cause. I will answer for his diligence and his 
honesty.” 

“His address?” 

“Mr. Barlow — somewhere by the Strand — let me see 
— Essex — yes, Essex street.” 

“ Then good-by to you for the present. — You dine ai 
Lord Lilburne’s, too ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


205 


“Yes. Adieu till then.’’ 

Vauderaont was not long before he arrived at Mr. 
Barlow’s ; a brass-plate announced to him the house. He 
was shown at once into a parlor, where he saw a man 
whom lawyers would call young, and spinsters middle- 
aged — viz. : about two-and-forty ; with a bold, resolute, 
intelligent countenance, and that steady, calm, sagacious 
eye, which inspires at once confidence and esteem. 

Vaudemont scanned him with the look of one who has 
been accustomed to judge mankind — as a scholar does 
books — with rapidity, because with practice. He had 
at first resolved to submit to him the heads of his case 
without mentioning names, and, in fact, he so commenced 
his narrative ; but, by degrees, as he perceived how 
much his own earnestness arrested and engrossed the 
interest of his listener, he warmed into fuller confidence, 
and ended by a full disclosure, and a caution as to the 
profoundest secrecy, in case, if there were no hope to 
recover his rightful name, he might yet wish to retain, 
un annoyed by curiosity or suspicion, that by which he 
was not discreditably known. 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Barlow, after assuring him of the 
most scrupulous discretion, — “ sir, I have some recollec- 
tion of the trial instituted by your mother, Mrs. Beau* 
fort ” — and the slight emphasis he laid on that name was 
the most grateful compliment he could have paid to the 
truth of Philip’i. recital. “ My impression is, that it was 
managed in a very slovenly manner by her lawyer; and 
some of his oversights we may repair in a suit instituted 

II.— 18 


206 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


by yourself. But it would be absurd to conceal from yon 
the great difficulties that beset us — your mother’s suit, 
designed to establish her own rights, was far easier than 
that which you must commence — viz., an action for eject- 
ment against a man who has been some years in undis- 
turbed possession. Of course, until the missing witness 
is found out, it would be madness to commence litigation. 
And the question, then, will be, how far that witness will 
suffice ? It is true, that one witness of a marriage, if 
the others are dead, is held sufficient by law. But I need 
not add, that that witness must be thoroughly credible. 
In suits for real property, very little documentary or 
secondary evidence is admitted. I doubt even whether 
the certificate of the marriage on wdiich — in the loss or 
destruction of the register — you lay so much stress, would 
be available in itself. But if an examined copy, it be- 
comes of the last importance, for it will then inform us 
of the name of the person who extracted and examined 
it. Heaven grant it may not have been the clergyman 
himself who performed the ceremony, and who, you say, 
is dead ; if some one else, we should then have a second, 
no doubt credible and most valuable, witness. The docu- 
ment would thus become available as proof, and, I think, 
that we should not fail to establish our case. ,, 

“But this certificate, how is it ever to be found ? I 
told you we had searched everywhere in vain.” 

“ True ; but you say that your mother always declared 
that the late Mr. Beaufort had so solemnly assured her. 


NIGHT AND MORNING 207 

even just prior to his decease, that it was in existence, 
that I have no doubt as to the fact. It may be possible, 
but it is a terrible insinuation to make, that if Mr. Robert 
Beaufort, in examining the papers of the deceased, chanced 
upon a document so important to him, he abstracted or 
destroyed it. If tins' should not have been the case (and 
Mr. Robert Beaufort’s moral character is unspotted — 
and we have no right to suppose it), the probability is, 
either that it was intrusted to some third person, or placed 
in some hidden drawer or deposit, the secret of which 
your father never disclosed. Who has purchased the 
house you lived in ? 99 

“ Fernside ? Lord Lilburne, Mrs. Robert Beaufort’s 
brother.” 

“ Humph ! — probably, then, he took the furniture and 
all. Sir, this is a matter that requires some time for 
close consideration. With your leave, I will not only in- 
sert in the London papers an advertisement to the effect 
that you suggested to Mr. Roger Morton (in case you 
should have made a right conjecture as to the object of 
the man who applied to him), but I will also advertise for 
the witness himself. William Smith, you say, his name 
is. Hid the lawyer employed by Mrs. Beaufort send to 
inquire for him in the colony ? ” 

“ Ho : I fear there could not have been time for that. 
My mother was so anxious and eager, and so convinced 

of the justice of her case ” 

“ That’s a pity ; her lawyer must have been a sad 
driveller.” 


20S 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Besides, now I remember, inquiry was made of his 
relations in England. His father, a farmer, was then 
alive ; the answer was that he had certainly left Australia. 
His last letter, written two years before that date, con- 
taining a request for money, which the father, himself 
made a bankrupt by reverses, could not give, had stated 
that he was about to seek his fortune elsewhere — since 
then they had heard nothing of him.” 

“Ahem ! Well, you will perhaps let me know where any 
relations of his are yet to be found, and I will look up the 
former suit, and go into the whole case without delay. In 
the mean time, you do right, sir — if you will allow me to 
say it — not to disclose either your own identity or a hint 
of your intentions. It is no use putting suspicion on its 
guard. And my search for this certificate must be managed 
with the greatest address. But, by the way — speaking of 
identity — there can be no difficulty, I hope, in proving 
yours.” 

Philip was startled. “ Why, I am greatly altered.” 

“But probably your beard and moustache may con- 
tribute to that change ; and doubtless, in the village 
where you lived, there would be many with whom you 
were in sufficient intercourse, and on whose recollection, 
by recalling little anecdotes and circumstances with which 
no one but yourself could be acquainted, your features 
would force themselves along with the moral conviction 
that the man who spoke to them could be no other but 
Philip Morton — or rather Beaufort.” 

“ You are right ; there must be many such. There 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


209 


was not a cottage in the place where I and my dogs were 
not familiar and half domesticated ” 

“All’s right, so far, then. But, I repeat, we must no 

be too sanguine. Law is not justice ” 

“But God is,” said Philip ; and he left the room 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ Volpone. A little in a mist, but not dejected; 

Never — but still myself.” 

Ben Jonson: Volpone. 

“ Peregrine . Am I enough disguised? 

Mer. Ay, I warrant you. 

Per. Save you, fair lady.” — Ibid. 

It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The ill win u 
that had blown gout to Lord Lilburne had blown Lord 
Lilburne away from the injury he had meditated again.it 
what he called “the object of his attachment.” How 
completely and entirely, indeed, the state of Lord Lil- 
burne’s feelings depended on the state of his health, may 
be seen in the answer he gave to his valet, when, the 
morning after the first attack of the gout, that worthy 
person, by way of cheering his master, proposed to ascer- 
tain something as to the movements of one with whom 
Lord Lilburne professed to be so violently in love, — 
“ Confound you, Dykeman ! ” exclaimed the invalid, — 
“why do you trouble me about women when I’m in this 
condition ? I don’t care if they were all at the bottom 
18* o 


210 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


of the sea ! Reach me the colchicum ; I must keep my 
mind calm.” 

Whenever tolerably well, Lord Lilburne was careless 
of his health ; the moment he was ill, Lord Lilburne paid 
himself the greatest possible attention. Though a man 
of firm nerves, in youth of remarkable daring, and still, 
though no longer rash, of sufficient personal courage, he 
was by no means fond of the thought of death — that is, 
of his own death. Not that he was tormented by any 
religious apprehensions of the Dread Unknown, but sim- 
ply because the only life of which he had any experience 
seemed to him a peculiarly pleasant thing. He had a sort 
of instinctive persuasion, that John Lord Lilburne would 
not be better off anywhere else. Always disliking solitude, 
he disliked it more than ever when he was ill, and he 
therefore welcomed the visit of his sister and the gentle 
hand of his pretty niece. As for Beaufort, he bored the 
sufferer ; and when that gentleman on his arrival, shutting 
out his wife and daughter, whispered to Lilburne, — “Any 
more news of that impostor ? ” Lilburne answered, pee- 
vishly, “I never talk about business when I have the 
gout ! I have set Sharp to keep a look-out for him, but 
he has learned nothing as yet. And now go to your club. 
You are a worthy creature, but too solemn for my spirits 
just at this moment. I have a few people coming to dine 
with me, your wife will do the honors, and — you can come 
in the evening.” 

Though Mr. Robert Beaufort’s sense of importance 
swelled and chafed at this very unceremonious conge , he 
forced a smile, and said, — 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


211 


‘‘Well, it is no wonder you are a little fretful with the 
gout. I have plenty to do in town, and Mrs. Beaufort 
and Camilla can come back without waiting for me.” 

“ Why, as your cook is ill, and they can’t dine at a 
club, you may as well leave them here till I am a little 
better ; not that I care, for I can hire a better nurse than 
either of them.” 

“ My dear Lilburne, don’t talk of hiring nurses ; cer- 
tainly, I am too happy if they can be of comfort to you.” 

“No! on second thoughts, you may take back your 
wife, she’s always talking of her own complaints, and leave 
me Camilla; you can’t want her for a few days.” 

“ Just as you like. And you really think I have ma- 
naged as well as I could about this young man, — eh ? ” 

“ Yes — yes ! And so you go to Beaufort Court iu a 
few days?” 

“I propose doing so. I wish you were well enough to 
come.” 

“ Um ! Chambers says that it would be a very good 
air for me — better than Fernside ; and as to my castle in 
the north, I would as soon go to Siberia. Well, if I get 
better, I will pay you a visit, only you always have such 
a stupid set of respectable people about you. I shock 
them, and they oppress me.” 

“ Why, as I hope soon to see Arthur, I shall make it 
as agreeable to him as I can, and I shall be very much 
obliged to you if you would invite a few of your own 
friends. ” 

“ Well, you are a good fellow, Beaufort, and 1 will take 


212 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


you at your word ; and, since one good turn deserves an 
other, I have now no scruple in telling you that I feel 
quite sure that you will have no further annoyance from 
this troublesome witness-monger. ” 

“ In that case,” said Beaufort, “ I may pick up a better 
match for Camilla ! Good-by, my dear Lilburne.” 

“ Form and Ceremony of the world ! ” snarled the peer, 
as the door closed on his brother-in-law, “ ye make little 
men very moral, and not a bit the better for being so ! ” 

It so happened that Yaudemont arrived before any of 
the other guests that day, and during the half-hour which 
Dr. Chambers assigned to his illustrious patient, so that, 
when he entered, there were only Mrs. Beaufort and Ca- 
milla in the drawing-room. 

Yaudemont drew back involuntarily, as he recognised 
in the faded countenance of the elder lady, features asso- 
ciated with one of the dark passages in his earlier life ; 
but Mrs. Beaufort’s gracious smile, and urbane, though 
languid, welcome, sufficed to assure him that the recogni- 
tion was not mutual. He advanced, and again stopped 
short, as his eye fell upon that fair and still child-like 
form, which had once knelt by his side and pleaded, with 
the orphan, for his brother. While he spoke to her, many 
recollections, some dark and stern, — but those, at least, 
connected with Camilla, soft and gentle — thrilled through 
his heart. Occupied as her own thoughts and feelings 
necessarily were with Sidney, there was something in Yau- 
demont’s appearance — his manner — his voice, which forced 
upon Camilla a strange and undefined interest : and even 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


213 


Mrs. Beaufort was roused from her customary apathy, as 
she glanced to that dark and commanding face with some- 
thing between admiration and fear. Yaudemont had 
scarcely, however, spoken ten words, when some other 
guests were announced, and Lord Lilburne was wheeled 
in upon his sofa shortly afterwards. Yaudemont con- 
tinued, however, seated next to Camilla, and the embar- 
rassment he had at first felt, disappeared. He possessed, 
when he pleased it, that kind of eloquence which belongs 
to men who have seen much and felt deeply, and whose 
talk has not been frittered down to the commonplace jar- 
gon of the world. His very phraseology was distinct and 
peculiar, and he had that rarest of all charms in polished 
life, originality both of thought and of manner. Camilla 
blushed, when she found at dinner that he placed himself 
by her side. That evening He Yaudemont excused him- 
self from playing, but the table was easily made without 
him, and still he continued to converse with the daughter 
of the man whom he held as his worst foe. By degrees, 
he turned the conversation into a channel that might lead 
him to the knowledge he sought. 

“ It was my fate,” said he, “ once to become acquainted 
with an intimate friend of the late Mr. Beaufort. Will 
you pardon me if I venture to fulfil a promise I made to 
him, and ask you to inform me what has become of a — a 
— that is, of Sidney Morton?” 

“Sidney Morton! I don’t«even remember the name. 
Oh, yes ! I have heard it,” added Camilla, innocently, 
and with a candor that showed how little she knew of the 


214 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


secrets of the family ; “ he was one of two poor boys in 
whom my brother felt a deep interest — some relations to 
my uncle. Yes — yes ! I remember now. I never knew 
Sidney, but I once did see his brother. ” 

“ Indeed! and you remember ” 

“ Yes ! I was very young then. I scarcely recollect 
what passed', it was all so confused and strange ; but I 
know that I made papa very angry, and I was told never 
to mention the name of Morton again. I believe they 
behaved very ill to papa.” 

“And you never learned — never ! — the fate of either 
— of Sidney ? ” 

“ Never !” 

“ But your father must know ? ” 

“ I think not ; but tell me,” said Camilla, with girlish 
and unaffected innocence, “ I have always felt anxious to 
know — what and who were those poor boys ? ” 

What and who were they ? So deep, then, was the 
stain upon their name, that the modest mother and the 
decorous father had never even said to that young girl — 
“ They are your cousins — the children of the man in 
whose gold we revel 1 ” 

Philip bit his lip, and the spell of Camilla’s presence 
seemed vanished. He muttered some inaudible answer, 
turned away to the card-table, and Liancourt took the 
chair he had left vacant. 

“And how does Miss Beaufort like my friend, Yaude 
mont ? I assure you that I have seldom seen him so aim 
to the fascination of female beauty ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


215 


“ Oh ! ” said Camilla, with her silver laugh, your 
nation spoils us for our own countrymen. You forget 
how little we are accustomed to flattery.” 

“ Flattery ! what truth could flatter on the lips of an 
exile ? But you don’t answer my question — what think 
you of Yaudemont? Few are more admired. He is 
handsome ! ” 

C4 Is he ? ” said Camilla, and she glanced at Yaudemont, 
as he stood at a little distance, thoughtful and abstracted. 
Every girl forms to herself some untold dream of that 
which she considers fairest. And Yaudemont had not 
the delicate and faultless beauty of Sidney. There was 
nothing that corresponded to her ideal in his marked 
features and lordly shape ! But she owned, reluctantly 
to herself, that she had seldom seen, among the trim 
gallants of every-day life, a form so striking and impres- 
sive. The air, indeed, was professional — the most care- 
less glance could detect the soldier. But it seemed 'the 
soldier of an elder age or a wilder clime. He recalled to 
her those heads which she had seen in the Beaufort 
Gallery and other Collections yet more celebrated — 
portraits by Titian of those warrior statesmen who lived 
in the old Republics of Italy in a perpetual struggle with 
their kind — images of dark, resolute, earnest men. Even 
whatever was intellectual in his countenance spoke, as in 
those portraits, of a mind sharpened rather in active than 
in studious* life ; — intellectual, not from the pale hues, 
the worn exhaustion, and the sunken cheek of the book- 
man and dreamer, but from its collected and stern repose, 


216 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the calm depth that lay beneath the fire of the eyes, and 
the strong will that spoke in the close full lips, and the 
high but not cloudless forehead. 

And, as she gazed, Yaudemont turned round — her 
eyes fell beneath his, and she felt angry with herself that 
she blushed. Yaudemont saw the downcast eye, he saw 
the blush, and the attraction of Camilla’s presence was 
restored. He would have approached her, but at that 
moment Mr. Beaufort himself entered, and his thoughts 
went again into a darker channel. 

“Yes,” said Liancourt, “you must allow Yaudemont 
looks what he is — a noble fellow and a gallant soldier. 
Did you never hear of his battle with the tigress ? It 
made a noise in India. I must tell it you as I have 
heard it.” 

And while Liancourt was narrating the adventure, 
whatever it was, to which he referred, the card-table was 
broken up, and Lord Lilburne, still reclining on his sofa, 
lazily introduced his brother-in-law to such of the guests 
as were strangers to him — Yaudemont among the rest. 
Mr. Beaufort had never seen Philip Morton more than 
three times ; once at Fernside, and the other times by 
an imperfect light, and when his features were convulsed 
by passion, and his form disfigured 'by his dress. Cer- 
tainly, therefore, had Robert Beaufort even possessed 
that faculty of memory which is supposed to belong 
peculiarly to kings and princes, and which recalls every 
face once seen, it might have tasked the gift to the utmost 
to have detected, in the bronzed and decorated foreigner 


NIGHT AND MORNING- 211 

to whom he was now presented, the features of the wild 
aud long-lost boy. But still some dim and uneasy pre- 
sentiment, or some struggling and painful elfort of recol- 
lection, was in his mind, as he spoke to Yaudemont, and 
listened to the cold, calm tone of his reply. 

“Who do you say that Frenchman is?” he whispered 
to his brother-in-law, as Yaudemont turned away. 

“ Oh ! a cleverish sort of adventurer — a gentleman ; 
— he plays. — He has s.een a good deal of the world — 
he rather amuses me — different from other people. I 
think of asking him to join our circle at Beaufort Court.” 

Mr. Beaufort coughed huskily, but not seeing any 
reasonable objection to the proposal, and afraid of rousing 
the sleeping hyaena of Lord Lilburne’s sarcasm, he merely 
said — 

“Any one you like to invite : ” and looking round for 
some one on whom to vent his displeasure, perceived 
Camilla still listening to Liancourt. He stalked up to 
her, and, as Liancourt, seeing her rise, rose also and 
moved away, he said, peevishly: “You will never learn 
to conduct yourself properly ; you are to be left here to 
nurse and comfort your uncle, and not to listen to the 
gibberish of every French adventurer. Well, Heaven be 
praised, I have a son 1 — girls are a great plague ! ” 

“ So they are, Mr. Beaufort,” sighed his wife, who had 
just joined him, and who was jealous of the preference 
Lilburne had given to her daughter. 

“And so selfish,” added Mrs. Beaufort ; “they only 

II. — 19 


218 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


care for their own amusements, and never mind how 
uncomfortable their parents are for want of them.” 

“Oh! dear mamma, don’t say so — let me go home 
with you — I’ll speak to my uncle ! ” 

“Nonsense, child ! — Come along, Mr. Beaufort ; ” and 
the affectionate parents went out arm in arm. They did 
not perceive that Yaudemont had been standing close be- 
hind them ; but Camilla, now looking up with tears in hei 
eyes, and again caught his gaze he had heard all. 

“And they ill-treat her,” he muttered: “ that divides 
her from them! — she will be left here — I shall see her 
again.” 

As he turned to depart, Lilburne beckoned to him. 

“ You do not mean to desert our table ? ” 

“ No ; but I am not very well to-night — to-morrow, if 
you will allow me.” 

“Ay, to-morrow ; and if you can spare an hour in the 
morning, it will be a charity. You see,” he added in a 
whisper, “ I have a nurse, though I have no children. 
D’ye think that’s love? Bah ! sir — a legacy ! Good 
night.” 

“No — no — no !” said Yaudemont to himself, as he 
walked through the moonlight streets. “No! though 
my heart burns, — poor murdered felon ! — to avenge thy 

wrongs and thy crimes, revenge cannot come from me 

he is Fanny’s grandfather and — Camilla’s uncle /” 

And Camilla, when that uncle had dismissed her for 
the night, sat down thoughtfully in her own room. The 
dark eyes of Yaudemont seemed still to shine on her ; his 


NIGHT AND MORNING 219 

voice yet rang in her ear ; the wild tales of daring and 
danger with which Liancourt had associated his name 
yet haunted her bewildered fancy — she started, fright- 
ened at her own thoughts. She took from her bosom 
some lines that Sidney had addressed to her, and, as she 
read and re-read, her spirit became calmed to its wonted 
and faithful melancholy. Yaudemont was forgotten, ana 
the name of Sidney yet murmured on her lips, when sleep 
came to renew the image of the absent one, and paint in 
dreams the fairy-land of a happy Future 1 


CHAPTER YI. 

“Ring on, ye bells — most pleasant is your chime I” 

Wilson; Isle of Palms. 

“ 0 fairy child ! What can I wish for thee ? ” — Ibid. 

Yaudemont remained six days in London without 

going to H , and each of those days he paid a visit 

to Lord Lilburne. On the seventh day, the invalid being 
much better, though still unable to leave his room, 
Camilla returned to Berkeley Square. On the same day, 
Yaudemont went once more to see Simon and poor 
Fanny. 

As he approached the door, he heard from the window, 
partially opened, for the day was clear and fine, Fanny’s 
sweet voice. She was chaunting one of the simple songs 

she had promised to learn by heart; and Yaudemont, 
2o 


220 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


though but a poor judge of the art, was struck and af- 
fected by the music of the voice and the earnest depth of 
the feeling. He paused opposite the window and called 
her by'her name. Fanny looked forth joyously, and ran, 
as usual, to open the door to him. 

“ Oh ! you have been so long away ! but I already 
know many of the songs : they say so much that I always 
wanted to say 1 ” 

Vaudemont smiled, but languidly. 

“ How strange it is,” said Fanny, musingly, “ that 
there should be so much in a piece of paper ! for, after 
all,” pointing to the open page of her book, “ this is but 
a piece of paper, — only there is life in it ! ” 

“Ay,” said Vaudemont, gloomily, and far from seizing 
the subtle delicacy of Fanny’s thought — her mind dwell- 
ing upon Poetry and his upon Law, — “ ay, and do you 
know that upon a mere scrap of paper, if I could but find 
it, may depend my whole fortune, my whole happiness, all 
that I care for in life ? ” 

“ Upon a scrap of paper ? Oh ! how I wish I could 
find it ? Ah ! you look as if you thought I should never 
be wise enough for that l” 

Vaudemont, not listening to her, uttered a deep sigh. 
Fanny approached him timidly. 

'‘Do not sigh, brother, — I can’t bear to hear you sigh. 
You are changed. Have you , too, not been happy ? ” 
“Happy, Fanny ! yes, lately very happy — too happy ! ” 

“ Happy, have you ? and I ” the girl stopped short 

— her tone had been that of sadness and reproach, and 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


221 


she stopped — why she knew not, but she felt her heart 
sink within her. Fanny suffered him to pass her, and he 
went straight to his own room. Her eyes followed him 
wistfully : it was not his habit to leave her thus abruptly. 
The family meal of the day was over ; and it was an hour 
before Yaudemont descended to the parlor. Fanny had 
put aside the songs, she had no heart to recommence 
those gentle studies that had been so sweet, — they had 
drawn no pleasure, no pfaise from him. She was seated 
idly and listlessly beside the silent old man, who every 
day grew more and more silent still. She turned her head 
as Yaudemont entered, and her pretty lip pouted as that 
of a neglected child. But he did not heed it, and the 
pout vanished, and tears rushed to her eyes. 

Yaudemont was changed. His countenance was 
thoughtful and overcast. His manner abstracted. He 
addressed a few words to Simon, and then, seating him- 
self by the window, leant his cheek on his hand, and was 
soon lost in reverie. Fanny, finding that he did not 
speak, and after stealing many a long and earnest glance 
at his motionless attitude and gloomy brow, rose gently, 
and gliding to him with her light step, said in a trembling 
voice, — 

“ Are you in pain, brother ? ” 

11 No, pretty one 1 ” 

“ Then why won’t you speak to Fanny ? Will you not 
walk with her ? Perhaps my grandfather will come too.” 

“ Not this evening. I shall go out; but it will be 
alone.” 


19 * 


222 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

“Where? has not Fanny been good? I have not 
been out since you left us. And the grave — brother! — 
I sent Sarah with the flowers — but ” 

Yaudemont rose abruptly. The mention of the grave 
brought back his thoughts from the dreaming channel 
into which they had flowed. Fanny, whose very child- 
ishness had once so soothed him, now disturbed ; he felt 
the want of that complete solitude which makes the at- 
mosphere of growing passion : he muttered some scarcely 
audible excuse, and quitted the house. Fanny saw him 
no more that evening. He did not return till midnight. 
But Fanny did not sleep till she heard his step on the 
stairs, and his chamber-door close : and when she did 
sleep, her dreams were disturbed and painful. The next 
morning, when they met at breakfast (for Yaudemont did 
not return to London), her eyes were red and heavy, and 
her cheek pale. And, still buried in meditation, Yaude- 
mont’s eye, usually so kind and watchful, did not detect 
those signs of a grief that Fanny could not have ex- 
plained. After breakfast, however, he asked her to walk 
out; and her face brightened as she hastened to put on 
her bonnet, and take her little basket, full of fresh flow- 
ers which she had already sent Sarah forth to purchase. 

“Fanny,” said Yaudemont, as leaving the house, he 
saw the basket on her arm, “ to-day you may place some 
of those flowers on another tombstone ! Poor child, 
what natural goodness there is in that heart ! — what pity 
that ” 

He paused. Fanny looked delightedly in his face. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


223 


“You were praising me — you! — And what is a pity, 
brother ? ” 

While she spoke, the sound of the joy-bells was heard 
near at hand. 

“ Hark ! ” said Y audemont, forgetting her question — 
and almost gaily — “ Hark ! — I accept the omen. It is 
a marriage-peal ! ” 

He quickened his steps, and they reached the church- 
yard. 

There was a crowd already assembled, and Yaudemont 
and Fanny paused; and, leaning over the little gate, 
looked on. 

“ Why are these people here, and why does the bell 
ring so merrily ? ” 

“There is to be a wedding, Fanny.” 

“I have heard bf a wedding very often,” said Fanny, 
with a pretty look of puzzlement and doubt, “but I don’t 
know exactly what it means. Will you tell me ? — and 
the bells, too ! ” 

“ Yes, Fanny, those bells toll but three times for man 1 
The first time, when he comes into the world ; the last 
time, when he leaves it ; the time between, when he takes 
to his side a partner in all the sorrows — in all the joys 
that yet remain to him ; and who, even when the last bell 
announces his death to this earth, may yet, for ever and 
ever, be his partner in that world to come — that heaven, 
where they who are as innocent as you, Fanny, may hope 
to live and to love each other in a land in which there 
are no graves ! ” 


22 


NIGHT AND liO^NING. 


“And this bell?” 

“ Tolls for that partnership — for the wedding ! ” 

“ I think I understand you ; — and they who are to be 
wed are happy ? ” 

“Happy, Fanny, if they love, and their love continue. 
Oh ! conceive the happiness to know some one person 
dearer to you than your own self — some one breast into 
which you can pour every thought, every grief, every 
joy ! One person, who, if all the rest of the world were 
to calumniate or forsake you, would never wrong you by 
a harsh thought or an unjust word, — who would cling to 
you the closer in sickness, in poverty, in care, — who 
would sacrifice all things to you, and for whom you would 
sacrifice all — from whom, except by death, night or day, 
you may be never divided — whose smile is ever at your 
hearth — who has no tears while you are well and happy, 
and your love the same. Fanny, such is marriage, if they 
who marry have hearts and souls to feel that there is no 
bond on earth so tender and so sublime. There is an 
opposite picture; — I will not draw that! — And as it is, 
Fanny, you cannot understand me ! ” 

He turned away : — and Fanny’s tears were falling like 
rain upon the grass below ; — he did not see them ! He 
entered the church-yard ; for the bell now ceased. The 
ceremony was to begin He followed the bridal party 
into the church, and Fanny, lowering her veil, crept after 
him, awed and trembling. 

They stood, unobserved, at a little distance, and heard 
the service. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


225 


The betrothed were of the middle class of life, young, 
both comely ; and their behavior was such as suited the 
reverence and sanctity of the rite. Yaudemont stood, 
looking on intently, with his arms folded on his breast. 
Fanny leant behind him, and apart from all, against one 
of the pews. And still in her hand, while the priest was 
solemnizing Marriage, she held the flowers intended for 
the Grave. Even to that Morning — hushed, calm, 
earnest, with her_mysterious and unconjectured heart — 
her shape brought a thought of Night! 

When the ceremony was over — when the bride fell on 
her mother’s breast, and wept ; and then, when turning 
thence, her eyes met the bridegroom’s, and the tears were 
all smiled away — when, in that one rapid interchange 
of looks, spoke all that holy love can speak to love, and 
with timid frankness she placed her hand in his to whom 
she had just vowed her life, — a thrill went through the 
hearts of those present. Yaudemont sighed heavily. He 
heard his sigh echoed ; but by one that had in its sound 
no breath of pain ; he turned ; Fanny had raised her 
veil ; her eyes met his, moistened, but bright, soft, and 
her cheeks were r >sy-red. Yaudemont recoiled before 
that gaze, and turned from the church. The persons 
interested retired to the ^stry to sign their names in the 
registry ; the crowd dispersed, and Yaudemont and Fanny 
stood alone in the burial-ground. 

“ Look, Fanny,” said the former, pointing to a tomb 
that stood far from his mother’s (for those ashes were too 
hallowed for such a neighborhood). “ Look yonder ; it 
iy* p 


» 


226 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


is a new tomb, Fanny, let us approach it. Can you read 
what is there inscribed ? ” 

The inscription was simply this, — 

To W — G — 

MAN SEES THE DEED 

GOD THE CIRCUMSTANCE. 

JUDGE NOT, THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED. 

“ Fanny, this tomb fulfils your pious wish ; it is to the 
memory of him whom you called your father. Whatever 
was his life here — whatever sentence it hath received, 
Heaven, at least, will not condemn your piety, if you 
honor one who was good to you, and place flowers, how- 
ever idle, even over that grave.” 

“ It is his — my father’s — and you have thought of this 
for me ! ” said Fanny, taking his hand, and sobbing. 
“And I have been thinking that you were not so kind to 
me as you were ! ” 

“Have I not been so kind to you ? nay, forgive me, I 
am not happy.” s 

“•Not? — you said yesterday you had been too happy.” 

“To remember happiness is not to be happy, Fanny.” 

“ That’s true — and ” 

Fanny stopped ; and as she bent over the tomb, musing, 
Vaudemont willing to leave her undisturbed, and feeling 
bitterly how little his conscience could vindicate, though 
it might find palliation for, the dark man who slept rwi 
there — retired a few paces. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


227 


At this time the new-married pair, with their witnesses, 
the clergyman, &c., came from the vestry, and crossed 
the path. Fanny, as she turned from the tomb, saw 
them, and stood still, looking earnestly at the bride. 

“ What a lovely face I ” said the mother. “ Is it — yes 
it is — the poor idiot girl.” 

“Ah I ” said the bridegroom, tenderly, “and she, Mary, 
beautiful as she is, she can neVer make another as happy 
as you have made me.” 

Yaudemont heard, and his heart felt sad. “Poor 
Fanny ! — And yet, but for that affliction — I might have 
loved her, ere I met the fatal face of the daughter of my 
foe 1 ” And with a deep compassion, an inexpressible 
and holy fondness, he moved to Fanny. 

“ Come, my child ; — now let us go home.” 

“ Stay,” said Fanny — “you forget.” And she went 
to strew the flowers, still left, over Catherine’s grave. 

“ Will my mother,” thought Yaudemont, “forgive me, 
if I have other thoughts than hate and vengeance for 
that house ^liich builds its greatness over her slandered 
name?” He groaned: — And that grave had lost its 
melancholy ebarm. 


228 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER YII. 

** Of all men, I say, 

That dare, for ’tis a desperate adventure, 

Wear on their free necks the yoke of women. 

Give me a soldier .” — Knight of Malta. 

“So lightly doth this little boat 
Upon the scarce-touched billows float ; 

So careless doth she seem to be, 

Thus left by herself on the homeless sea, 

To lie there with her cheerful sail, 

Till heaven shall send some gracious gale.” 

Wilson: Isle of Palms . 

Vaudemont returned that evening to London, and 
found at his lodgings a note from Lord Lilburne, stating 
that as his gout was now somewhat mitigated, his phy- 
sician had recommended him to try change of air — that 
Beaufort Court was in one o f the western counties, in a 
genial climate — that he was therefore going thither the 
next day for a short time — that he had asked some of 
Monsieur de Yaudemont’s countrymen, and a few other 
friends, to enliven the circle of a dull country-tiouse — that 
Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort would be delighted to see Mon- 
sieur de Yaudemont also — and that his compliance with 
their invitation would be a charity to Monsieur de 
Yaudemont’s faithful and obliged, Lilburne. 


The first sensation of Yaudemont on reading this ef- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


229 


fusion was delight. “ I shall see her,” he cried ; “ I shall 
he under the same roof ! ” But the glow faded at once 
from his cheek : — The roof! — what roof? Be the guesi 
where he held himself the lord ! — be the guest of Robert 
Beaufort! — Was that all? Did he not meditate the 
deadliest war which civilized life admits of— the War of 
Law — war for name, property, fhat very hearth, with all 
its household gods, against this man — could he receive 
his hospitality ? And what then ! ” he exclaimed, as he 
paced to and fro the room , — “ because her father wronged 
me, and because I would claim mine own — must I there- 
fore exclude from my thoughts, from my sight, an image 
so fair and gentle ; — the one who knelt by my side, an 
infant, to that hard man ? — Is Hate so noble a passion 
that it is not to admit one glimpse of Love ? — Love! 
what word is that 2 Let me beware in time ! “ He 
paused in fierce self-contest, and, throwing open the 
window, gasped for air. The street in which he lodged 
was situated in the neighborhood of St. James’s; and, at 
that very moment, as if to defeat all opposition, and to 
close the struggle, Mrs. Beaufort’s barouche drove by, 
Camilla at her side. Mrs. Beaufort, glancing up, lan- 
guidly bowed ; and Camilla herself perceived him, and 
he saw her change color as she inclined her head. He 
gazed after them almost breathless, till the carriage dis- 
appeared ; and then, reclosing the window, he sat down 
to collect his thoughts, and again to reason with himself 
But still, as he reasoned, he saw ever before him that 
blush and that smile. At last he sprang up, and a noble 
II. —20 


230 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


and bright expression elevated tlie character of his face, 
— “ Yes, if I enter that house, if I eat that man’s bread, 
and drink of his cup, I must forego, not justice — not what 
is due to my mother’s name — but whatever belongs to 
hate and vengeance. If I enter that house— and if Pro- 
vidence permit me the means whereby to regain my rights/ 
why, she — the innocent ^ne — she may be the means of 
saving her father from ruin, and stand like an angel by 
that boundary where justice runs into revenge I — Besides, 
is it not my duty to discover Sidney ? Here is the only 
clue I shall obtain.” With these thoughts he hesitated 
no more — he decided : he would not reject this hospitality, 
since it might be in his power to pay it back ten thou- 
sand fold. “And who knows,” he murmured again, “if 
Heaven, in throwing this sweet being in my way, might 
not have designed to subdue and chasten in me the angry 

passions I have so long fed on ? I have seen her, can 

I now hate her father ? ” 

He sent off his note accepting the invitation. When 
he had done so, was he satisfied ? He had taken as noble 
and as large a view of the duties thereby imposed on him 
as he well could take ; but something whispered at his 
heart, “There is weakness in thy generosity — Darest 
thou love the daughter of Robert Beaufort ? ” And his 
heart had no answer to this voice. 

The rapidity with which love is ripened depends less 
upon the actual number of years that have passed over 
the soil in which the seed is cast, than upon the freshness 
of the soil itself. A young man who lives the ordinary 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


231 


life of the world, and who fritters away, rather than ex- 
hausts, his feelings, upon a variety of quick succeeding 
subjects — the Cynthias of the minute — is not apt to form 
a real passion at the first sight. Youth is inflammable 
only when the heart is young ! 

There are certain times of life when, in either sex, the 
affections are prepared, gfs it were, to be impressed with 
the first fair face that attracts the fancy and delights the 
eye. Such times are when the heart has been long soli- 
tary, and when some interval of idleness and rest suc- 
ceeds to periods of harsher and more turbulent excite- 
ment. It was precisely such a period in the life of Yaude- 
mont. Although his ambition had been for many years 
his dream, and his sword his mistress, yet naturally affec- 
tionate, and susceptible of strong emotion, he had often 
repined at his lonely lot. By degrees, the boy’s fantasy 
and reverence which had wound themselves round the 
image of Eugenie, subsided into that gentle and tender 
melancholy which, perhaps, by weakening the strength of 
the sterner thoughts, leaves us inclined, rather to receive, 
than to resist, a new attachment ; — and on the verge of 
the sweet Memory trembles the sweet Hope. The sus- 
pension of his profession, his schemes, his struggles, his 
career, left his passions unemployed. Yaudemont was 
thus unconsciously prepared to love. As we have seen, 
his first and earliest feelings directed themselves to Eanny. 
But he had so immediately detected the danger, and so 
immediately recoiled from nursing those thoughts and 
fancies, without which love dies for want of food, for a 


232 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


persou to whom he ascribed the affliction of an imbecility 
which would give to such a sentiment all the attributes 
either of the weakest rashness or of dishonor approach- 
ing to sacrilege— that the wings of the Deity were scared 
away the instant their very shadow fell upon his mind. 
And thus, when Camilla rose upon him, his heart was free 
to receive her image. Her graces, her accomplishments, 
a certain nameless charm that invested her, pleased him 
even more than her beauty ; the recollections connected 
with that first time in which he had ever beheld her, were 
also grateful and endearing ; the harshness with which 
her parents spoke to her, moved his compassion, and ad- 
dressed itself to a temper peculiarly alive to the generosity 
that leans towards the weak and the wronged ; the en- 
gaging mixture of mildness and gaiety with which she 
tended her peevish and sneering uncle, convinced him of 
her better and more enduring qualities of disposition and 
womanly heart. And even — so strange and contradic- 
tory are our feelings — the very remembrance that she was 
connected with a family so hateful to him made her own 
image the more bright from the darkness that surrounded 
it. For was it not with the daughter of his foe that the 
lover of Yerona fell in love at first sight? And is not 
that a common type of us all — as if Passion delighted in 
contradictions ? As the Diver, in Schiller’s exquisite 
ballad, fastened upon the rock of coral in the midst of 
the gloomy sea, so we cling the more gratefully to what- 
ever of fair thought and gentle shelter smiles out to us in 
the depths of Hate and Strife. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


238 


But, perhaps, Yaudemont would not so suddenly and 
bo utterly have rendered himself to a passion that began, 
already, completely to master his strong spirit, if he had 
not, from Camilla’s embarrassment, her timidity, her 
blushes, intoxicated himself with the belief that his feel- 
ings were not unshared. And who knows not that such 
a belief, once cherished, ripens our own love to a develop- 
ment in which hours are as years ? 

It was, then, with such emotions as made him almost 
insensible to every thought but the luxury of breathing 
the same air as his cousin, which swept from his mind the 
Past, the Future — leaving nothing but a joyous, a breath- 
less present on the Face of Time, that he repaired to 

Beaufort Court. He did not return to H before he 

went, but he wrote to Fanny a short and hurried line to 
explain that he might be absent for some days at least, 
and promised to write again, if he should be detained 
longer than he anticipated. 

In the meanwhile, one of those successive revolutions 
which had marked the eras in Fanny’s moral existence, 
took its date from that last time they had walked and 
conversed together. 

The very evening of that day, some hours after Philip 
was gone, and after Simon had retired to rest, Fanny was 
sitting before the dying fire in the little parlor in an atti- 
tude of deep and pensive reverie. The old woman-ser- 
vant, Sarah, who, very different from Mrs. Boxer, loved 
Fanny with her whole heart, came into the room, as was 
her wont before going to bed, to see that the fire was 
20 * 


23 * 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


duh out, and all safe : and as she approached the hearth, 
she started to see Fanny still up. 

“ Dear heart alive ! ” she said ; “ why, Miss Fanny 
you will catch your death of cold, — what are you think- 
ing about ? ” 

“Sit down, Sarah; I want to speak to you.” Now 
though Fanny was exceedingly kind, and attached to 
Sarah, she was seldom communicative to her, or indeed 
to any one. It was usually in its own silence and dark- 
ness that that lovely mind worked out its own doubts. 

“ Do you, my sweet young lady ? I’m sure anything I 

can do- ” and Sarah seated herself in her master’s 

great chair, and drew it close to Fanny. There was no 
light in the room but the expiring fire, and it threw up- 
ward a pale glimmer on the two faces bending over it, — 
the OLe so strangely beautiful, so smooth, so blooming, so 
exquisite in its youth and innocence, — the other withered, 
wrinkled* meagre, and astute. It was like the Fairy and 
the Witch together. 

“Well, miss,” said the crone, observing that, after a 
considerable pause, Fanny was still silent, — “ Well ” 

“ Sarah, I have seen a wedding ! ” 

“ Have you ? ” and the old woman laughed. “ Oh ! I 
heard it was to be to-day ! — young Waldron’s wedding I 
— Yes, they have been long sweet-hearts.” 

“Were yGU ever married, Sarah?” 

“ Lord blest you, — yes ! and a very good husband I 
had, poor mar. ? But he’s dead these many years ; and 
if you had not I aken me, I must have gone to the work- 
hus.” 


NIGH®. AND MORNING. 23i) 

“ He is dead 1 — Wasn’t it very hard to live after that, 
Sarah.” 

“ The Lord strengthens the hearts of widders ! ” ob- 
served Sarah, sanctimoniously. 

“ Hid you marry your brother, Sarah ? ” said Fanny, 
playing with the corner of her apron. 

“ My brother ! ” exclaimed the old woman, aghast. 
“ La ! miss, you must not talk in that way, — it’s quite 

wicked and heathenish ! One must not marry one’s 

♦ ' 

brother ! ” 

“ No ! ” said Fanny, tremblingly, and turning very 
pale, even by that light. “ No 1 — are you sure of that? ” 
“ It is the wickedest thing even to talk about, my dear 
young mistress ; — but you’re like a babby unborn ! ” 
Fanny was silent for some moments. At length she 
said, unconscious that she was speaking aloud, “ But he 
is not my brother, after all ! ” 

“ Oh, miss, fie ! — Are you letting your pretty head run 
on the handsome gentleman ? — You , too, — dear, dear ! I 
see we’re all alike, we poor femel creturs ! — You 1 who’d 
have thought it ? Oh, Miss Fanny I— you’ll break your 
heart if you goes for to fancy any such thing.” 

“Any what thing ?” 

“ Why, that that gentleman will marry you ! — I’m sure, 
thof he f s so simple like, he’s some great gentleman ! 
They say his boss is worth a hundred pounds ! Hear, 
dear ! why didn’t I ever think of this before ? He must 
be a very wicked man. I see, now, why he comes here. 

I’ll speak to him, that I will ! — a very wicked man ! ” 

2p 


236 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


SaraYi was startled from her indignation by Fanny’s 
rising suddenly, and standing before her in the flickering 
twilight, almost like a shape transformed, — so tall did she 
seem, so stately, so dignified. 

“ Is it of him that you are speaking ? ” said she, in a 
voice of calm but deep resentment — “of him! — If so, 
Sarah, we two can live no more in the same house.” 

And these words were said with a propriety and col- 
lectedness that even, through all her terror, showed at 
once to Sarah how much they now wronged Fanny who 
had suffered their lips to repeat the parrot-cry of the 
“idiot girll” 

“ 0 ! gracious me ! — miss — ma’am — I am so sorry — 
I’d rather bite out my tongue than say a word to offend 
you ; it was only my love for you, dear innocent creature 
that you are 1 ” and the honest woman sobbed with real 
passion as she clasped Fanny’s hand. “ There have been 
so many young persons, good and harmless, yes, even as 
you are, ruined. But you don’t understand me. Miss 
Fanny ! hear me ; I must try and say what I would say. 
That man, that gentleman — so proud, so well-dressed, sc 
grand-like, will never marry you, never — never. And if 
ever he says he does love you, and you say you loves 
him, and you two don't marry, you will be ruined and 
wicked, and die — die of a broken heart 1 ” * 

The earnestness of Sarah’s manner subdued and almost 
awed Fanny. She sunk down again in her chair, and 
suffered the old woman to caress and weep over her hand 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


23t 


for some moments, in a silence that concealed the darkest 
and most agitated feelings Fanny’s life had hitherto known. 
At length, she said, — 

“ Why may he not marry me if he loves me ? — he is 
not my brother, — indeed he is not 1 I’ll never call him 
so again.” 

“ He cannot marry you,” said Sarah, resolved, with a 
sort of rude nobleness, to persevere in what she felt to 
be a duty ; “ I don’t say anything about money, because 
that does not always signify. But he cannot marry you, 
because — because people who are hedicated one way never 
marry those who are hedicated and brought up in another. 
A gentleman of that kind requires a wife to know — oh — 
to know ever so much ; and you ” 

“ Sarah,” interrupted Fanny, rising again, but this time 
with a smile on her face, “ don’t say anything more about 
it ; I forgive you, if you promise never to speak unkindly 
of him again — never — never — never, Sarah!” 

“ But may I just tell him that — that ” 

“ That what ? ” 

“ That you are so young and innocent, and has no per- 
tector like ; and that if you were to love him it wculd be 
a shame in him — that it would!” 

And then (oh ! no, Fanny, there was nothing clouded 
now in your reason !) — and then the woman’s alarm, the 
modesty, the instinct, the terror came upon her ; — 

“ Never ! never ! I will not love him, — I do not love 
him, indeed, Sarah. If you speak to him, I will never 


238 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


look you in the fa6e again. It is all past — all, dear 
Sarah 1 ” 

She kissed the old woman ; and Sarah, fancying that 
her sagacity and counsel had prevailed, promised all she 
was asked ; so they went up-stairs together — friends. 


CHAPTER YII1. 

r 

“ As the wind 

Sobs, an uncertain sweetness comes from out 

The orange-trees. 

* * * * 

Rise up, Olympia. — She sleeps soundly. Ho ! 

Stirring at last.” Barry Cornwall. 

The next day, Fanny was seen by Sarah counting the 
little hoard that she had so long and so painfully saved 
for her benefactor’s tomb. The money was no longer 
wanted for that object. Fanny had found another ; she 
said nothing to Sarah or to Simon. But there was a 
strange complacent smile upon her lip as she busied her- 
self in her work, that puzzled the old woman. Late at 
noon came the postman’s unwonted knock at the door. 

A letter ! — a letter for Miss Fanny. A letter ! — the 
first she had ever received in her life ! And it was from 
him! — and it began “ Hear Fanny.” Yaudemont had 
called her “ dear Fanny” a hundred times, and the expres- 
sion had become a matter of course. But “ Dear Fanny ” 
seemed so very different when it was written. The letter 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


239 


could not well be shorter, nor, all things considered, colder. 
But the girl fonnd no fault with it. It began with “ Dear 
Fanny,” and it ended with “ yours truly.” “ Yours truly 
— mine truly — and how kind to write at all ! ” Now it 
so happened that Yaudemont, having never merged the art 
of the penman into that rapid scrawl into which people, 
who are compelled to write hurriedly and constantly, de- 
generate, wrote a remarkably good hand, — bold, clear, 
symmetrical — almost too good a hand for one who was 
not to make money by caligraphy. And after Fanny had 
got the words by heart, she stole gently to a cupboard 
and took forth some specimens of her own hand, in the 
shape of house and work memoranda, and extracts which, 
the better to help her memory, she had made from the 
poem-book Yaudemont had given her. She gravely laid 
his letter by the side of these specimens, and blushed at 
the contrast; yet, after all, her own writing, though 
trembling and irresolute, was far from a bad or vulgar 
hand. But emulation was now fairly roused within her. 
Yaudemont, preoccupied by more engrossing thoughts, 
and, indeed, forgetting a danger which had seemed so 
thoroughly to have passed away, did not in his letter 
caution Fanny against going out alone. She remarked 
this ; and having completely recovered her own alarm at 
the attempt that had been made on her liberty, she thought 
she was now released from her promise to guard against a 
past and imaginary peril. So after dinner she slipped 
out alone, and went to the mistress of the school whers 
she had received her elementary education. She had evei 


240 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


since continued her acquaintance with that lady, who, 
kind-hearted, and touched by her situation, often employed 
her industry, and was far from blind to the improvement 
that had for some time been silently working in the mind 
of her old pupil. 

Fanny had a long conversation with this lady, and she 
brought back a bundle of books. The light might have 
been seen that night, and many nights after, burning long 
and late from her little window. And having recovered 
her old freedom of habits, which Simon, poor man, did 
not notice, and which Sarah, thinking that anythiug was 
better than moping at home, did uot remonstrate against, 
Fanny went out regularly for two hours, or sometimes for 
even a longer period, every evening after old Simon had 
composed himself to the nap that filled up the interval 
between dinner and tea. 

In a very short time — a time that with ordinary stimu- 
lants would have seemed marvellously short — Fanny’s 
handwriting was not the same thing ; her manner of talk- 
ing became different ; she no longer called herself “ Fanny” 
when she spoke ; the music of her voice was more quiet 
and settled ; her sweet expression of face was more 
thoughtful ; the eyes seemed to have deepened in their 
very color ; she was no longer heard chaunting to herself 
as she tripped along. The books that she nightly fed on 
had passed into her mind ; the poetry that had ever un- 
consciously sported round her young years began now to 
create poetry in herself. Nay, it might almost have 
seemed as if that restless disorder of the intellect, which 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


241 


the dullards have called Idiocy, had been the wild efforts, 
not of Folly, but of Genius seeking to find its path and 
an outlet from the cold and dreary solitude to which the 
circumstances of her early life had compelled it. 

Days, even weeks, passed — she never spoke of Yaude- 
mont. And once, when Sarah, astonished and bewildered 
by the change in her young mistress, asked, — 

“ When does the gentleman come back ? ^ 

Fanny answered, with a mysterious smile, “Not yet, 
I hope — not quite yet ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Thierry. I do begin 

To feel an alteration in my nature, 

And in his full-sailed confidence a shower 
Of gentle rain, that falling on the fire 
Hath quenched it. 

* * * * 

How is my heart divided 
Between the duty of a son and love ! ” 

Beaumont and Fletcher : Thierry and Theodoret. 

Vaudemont had now been a month at Beaufort Court. 
The scene of a country-house, with the sports that enliven 
it, and the accomplishments it calls forth, was one in which 
he was well fitted to shine t He had been an excellent 
shot as a boy ; and though long unused to the fowling- 
piece, had, in India, acquired a deadly precision with the 
rifle ; so that a very few days of practice in the stubbles 
II. — 21 a 


242 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


and covers of Beaufort Court made his skill the theme 
of the guests and the admiration of the keepers. Hunt- 
ing began, and — this pursuit, always so strong a passion 
in the active man, and which, to the turbulence and agita- 
tion of his half-tamed breast, now excited by a kind of 
frenzy of hope and fear, gave a vent and release — was a 
sport in which he was yet more fitted to excel. His horse- 
manship, his daring, the stone walls he leaped, and the 
floods through which he dashed, furnished his companions 
with wondering tale and comment on their return home. 
Mr. Marsden, who, with some other of Arthur’s early 
friends, had been invited to Beaufort Court, in order to 
welcome its expected heir, and who retained all the pru- 
dence which had distinguished him of yore, when having 
ridden over old Simon he dismounted to examine the 
knees of his horse ; — Mr. Marsden, a skilful huntsman, 
who rode the most experienced horses in the world, and 
who generally contrived to be in at the death, without 
having leaped over anything higher than a hurdle, suffer- 
ing the bolder quadruped (in case what is called the 
“ knowledge of the country” — that is, the knowledge of 
gaps and gates — failed him) to perform the more danger- 
ous feats alone, as he quietly scrambled over, or scrambled 
through, upon foot, and remounted the well-taught ani- 
mal when it halted after the exploit, safe and sound 
Mr. Marsden declared that he never saw a rider with so 
little judgment as Monsieur de Yaudemont, and that the 
devil was certainly in him. 

This sort of reputation, commonplace and merely phy 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


243 


sical as it was in itself, bad a certain effect upon Camilla ; 
it might be an effect of fear. I do not say, for I do not 
know, what her feelings towards Yaudemont exactly were, 
As the calmest natures are often those the most hurried 
away by their contraries, so, perhaps, he awed and dazzled 
rather than pleased her ; — at least, he certainly forced 
himself on her interest. Still she would have started in 
terror if any one had said to her, “ Do you love your be- 
trothed less than when you met by that happy lake ? ” — 
and her heart would have indignantly rebuked the ques- 
tioner. The letters of her lover were still long and fre- 
quent ; hers were briefer and more subdued. But then 
there was constraint in the correspondence — it was sub- 
mitted to her mother. 

Whatever might be Yaudemont’s manner to Camilla 
whenever occasion threw them alone together, he certainly 
did not make his attentions glaring enough to be re- 
marked. His eye watched her rather than his lip ad- 
dressed ; he kept as much aloof as possible from the rest 
of her family, and his customary bearing was silent even 
to gloom. But there were moments when he indulged in 
a fitful exuberance of spirits, which had something strained 
and unnatural. He had outlived Lord Lilburne’s short 
liking ; for since he had resolved no longer to keep watch 
on that noble gamester’s method of play, he played but 
little himself ; and Lord Lilburne saw that he had no 
chance of ruining him — there was, therefore, no longer 
any reason to like him. But this was not all ; when Yau- 
demcnt had been at the house somewhat more than two 


244 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


weeks, Lilburne, petulant and impatient, whether at his 
refusals to join the card-table, or at the moderation with 
which, when he did, he confined his ill-luck to petty losses, 
one day limped up to him, as he stood at the embrasure 
of the window, gazing on the wide lands beyond, and 
said, — 

“Vaudemont, you are bolder in hunting, they tell me, 
than you are at whist.” 

“ Honors don’t tell against one — over a hedge ! ” 

“What do you mean ? ” said Lilburne, rather haughtily. 

Vaudemont was, at that moment, in one of those bitter 
moods when the sense of his situation, the sight of the 
usurper in his home, often swept away the gentler thoughts 
inspired by his fatal passion. And the tone of Lord Lil- 
burne, and his loathing to the man, were too much for his 
temper. 

“ Lord Lilburne,” he said, and his lip curled, “ if you 
had been born poor, you would have made a great for- 
tune — you play luckily.” 

“ How am I to take this, sir ? ” 

“As you please,” answered Vaudemont, calmly, but 
with an eye of fire. And he turned away. 

Lilburne remained on the spot very thoughtful — “ Hum ! 
he suspects me. I cannot quarrel on such ground — the 
suspicion itself dishonors me — I must seek another.” 

The next day, Lilburne, who was familiar with Mr. 
Marsden (though the latter gentleman never played at 
the same table), asked that prudent person, after break 
fast, if he happened to have his pistols with him. 


NIQHT AND MORNING. 


245 


'‘Yes ; I always take them into the country — one may 
as well practise when one has the opportunity. Besides, 
sportsmen are often quarrelsome ; and if it is known that 
one shoots well, — it keeps one out of quarrels !” 

“Very true,” said Lilburne, rather admiringly; “I 
have made the. same remark myself when I was younger. 
I have not shot with a pistol for some years. I am well 
enough now to walk out with the help of a stick. Sup- 
pose we practise for half-an-hour or so.” 

“With all my heart,” said Mr. Marsden. 

The pistols were brought, and they strolled forth ; Lord 
Lilburne found his hand out. 

“As I never hunt now,” said the peer, and he gnashed 
his teeth, and glanced at his maimed limb ; “ for though 
lameness would not prevent my keeping my seat, violent 
exercise hurts my leg ; and Brodie says, any fresh acci- 
dent might bring on tic douloureux ; — and as my gout 
does not permit me to join the shooting parties at pre- 
sent, it would be a kindness in you to lend me your pistols 
— - it would while away an hour or so ; though, thank 
Ileaven, my duelling days are over ! ” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Marsden ; and the pistols were 
consigned to Lord Lilburne. 

Four days from the date, as Mr. Marsden, Vaudemont, 
and some other gentlemen, were making for the covers, 
they came upon Lord Lilburne, who, in a part of the 
park not within sight or sound of the house, was amusing 
Mmself with Mr. Marsden’s pistols, which Dykeman was 


/ 


246 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

at hand to load for him. He turned round, not at all 
disconcerted by the interruption. 

“You have no idea how I’ve improved, Marsden : — 
just see 1 ” and he pointed to a glove nailed to a tree. 
I’ve hit that mark twice in five times ; and every time I 
have gone straight enough along the line to have killed 
my man.” 

“Ay, the mark itself does not so much signify,” said 
Mr. Marsden : “ at least, not in actual duelling — the 
great .thing is to be in the line.” 

While he spoke, Lord Lilburne’s ball went a third time 
through the glove. His cold bright eye turned on Vaude- 
mont, as he said, with a smile — 

“ They tell me you shoot well with a fowling-piece, 
my dear Yaudemont — are you equally adroit with a 
pistol ? ” 

“You may see, if you like; but you take aim, Lord 
Lilburne ; that would be of no use in English duelling. 
Permit me.” 

He walked to the glove, and tore from it one of the 
fingers, which he fastened separately to the tree, took the 
pistol from Dykeman as he walked past him, gained the 
spot whence to fire, turned at once round, without appa- 
rent aim, and the finger fell to the ground. 

Lilburne stood aghast. 

“ That’s wonderful ! ” said Marsden ; — “ quite wonder- 
ful. Where the devil did you get such a knack ? — for it 
is only knack, after all!” 

“ I lived for many years in a country where the practice 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


24 ; 


was constant, where all that belongs to rifle-shooting was 
a necessary accomplishment — a country in which man 
had often to contend against the wild beast. In civilized 
states, man himself supplies the place of the wild beast 
— but we don’t hunt him! — Lord Lilburne,” (and this 
was added with a smiling and disdainful whisper.) “ you 
must practise a little more.” 

But disregardful of the advice, from that day Lord 
Lilburne’s morning occupation was gone. He thought 
no longer of a duel with Vaudemont. As soon as the 
sportsman had left him, he bade Dykeman take up the 
pistols, and walked straight home into the library, where 
Robert Beaufort, who was no sportsman, generally spent 
his mornings. 

He flung himself into an arm-chair, and said, as he 
stirred the fire with unusual vehemence — 

“Beaufort, I’m very sorry I asked you to invite Yaude- 
mont. He’s a very ill-bred, disagreeable fellow I ” 
Beaufort threw down his steward’s account-book, on 
which he was employed, and replied — 

“ Lilburne, I have never had an easy moment since 
that man has been in the house. As he was your guest, 
1 did not like to speak before, but don’t you observe — 
you must observe — how like he is to the old family 
portraits ? The more I have examined him, the more 
another resemblance grows upon me. In a word,” said 
Robert, pausing and breathing hard, “ if his name were 
not Yaudemont — if his history were not, apparently, so 
well known, 1 should say — I should swear, that it is 
Philip Morton, who sleeps under this roof 1 ” 


248 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“ Ha ! ” said Lilburne, with an earnestness that sur- 
prised Beaufort, who expected to have heard his brother* 
in-law’s sneering sarcasm at his fears ; “ the likeness you 
speak of to the old portraits did strike me ; it struck 
Marsden, too, the other day, as we were passing through 
the picture-gallery ; and Marsden remarked it aloud to 
Yaudemont. I remember now that he changed counte- 
nance, and made no answer. Hush ! hush ! hold your 
tongue, let me think — let me think. This Philip — yes 
— yes — I and Arthur saw him with — with Gawtrey — 
in Paris ” > 

“ Gawtrey ! — was that the name of the rogue he was 
said to ” 

‘‘Yes — yes — yes. Ah ! now I guess the meaning of 
those looks — those words,” muttered Lilburne, between 
his teeth. “This pretension to the name of Yaudemont 
was always apocryphal — the story always but half 
believed — the invention of a woman in love with him — 
the claim on your property is made at the very time he 
appears in England. — Ha ! have you a newspaper there ? 
give it me. No! ’tis not in this paper. Ring the bell 
for the file ! ” 

“ What’s the matter ? you terrify me 1 ” gasped out 
Mr. Beaufort, as he rang the bell. 

“ Why ! have you not seen an advertisement, repeated 
several times within the last month ? ” 

“I never read advertisements; except in the county 
paper if land is to be sold.” 

“Nor I often ; but this caught my eye. John” (here 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


24S 


the servant entered), “bring the file of the newspapers. 
The name of the witness whom Mrs. Morton appealed to 
was Smith, the same name as the captain ; what was the 
Christian name?” 

“I don’t remember.” 

“Here are the papers — shut the door — and here U 
the advertisement : 'If Mr. William Smith, son of Jere- 
miah Smith, who formerly rented the farm of Shipdale- 
Bury, under the late Right Hon. Charles Leopold Beau- 
fort (that’s your uncle), and who emigrated in the year 
18 — to Australia, will apply to Mr. Barlow, Solicitor, 
Essex Street, Strand, he will hear of something to his 
advantage.’ ” 

“ Good Heavens 1 why did not you mention this to me 
before ? ” 

“Because I did not think it of any importance. In 
the first place, there might be some legacy left to the 
man, quite distinct from your business. Indeed, that was 
the probable supposition ; — or even if connected with 
the claim, such an advertisement might be but a despi- 
cable attempt to frighten you. Never mind — don’t look 
so pale — after all, this is a proof that the witness is not 
found — that Captain Smith is neither the Smith, nor has 
discovered where the Smith is ! ” 

“ True ! ” observed Mr. Beaufort : “true — very true ! ” 

“ Humph ! ” said Lord Lilburne, who was still rapidly 
glancing over the file — “Here is another advertisement 
which I never saw before : this looks suspicious : ‘ If the 
person who called on the of September, on Mr. 


21* 


250 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Morton, linen-draper, &c., of N , will renew his appli- 

cation personally or by letter, he may now obtain the 
information he sought for.’ ” 

“ Morton ! — the woman’s brother ! their uncle ! it is 
too clear ! ” 

“ But what brings this man, if he be really Philip Mor- 
ton, what brings him here ? — to spy or to threaten ? ” 

“I will get him out of the house this day.” 

“ No — no ; turn the watch upon himself. I see now ; 
he is attracted by your daughter ; sound her quietly ; 
don’t tell her to discourage his confidences ; find out, if 
he ever speaks of these Mortons. Ha ! I recollect — 
he has spoken to me of the Mortons, but vaguely — I 
forget what. Humph ! this is a man of spirit and daring 
— watch him, I say — watch him! When does Arthur 
come back ? ” 

“ He has been travelling so slowly, for he still com- 
plains of his health, and has had relapses : but he ought 
to be in Paris this week : perhaps he is there now. Good 
Heavens ! he must not meet this man ! ” 

“ Do what I tell you ! get out all from your daughter. 
Never fear : he can do nothing against you except by 

law. But if he really like Camilla ” 

“ He ! — Philip Morton — the adventurer — the ” 

“He is the eldest son : remember, you thought even of 
accepting the second. He may find the witness — he 
may win his suit; if he like Camilla, there may be a 
compromise.” 

Mr. Beaufort felt as if turned to ice. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


251 


“ Yon think him likely to win this infamous suit, 
then ? ” he faltered. 

“ Did not you guard against the possibility by securing 
the brother ? more worth while to do it with this man. 
Hark ye ! the politics of private are like those of public 
life, — when the state can’t crush a demagogue, it should 
entice him over. If you can ruin this dog” (and Lilburne 
stamped his foot fiercely, forgetful of the gout), “ruin 
him ! hang him ! If you caij’t ” (and here with a wry 
face he caressed the injured foot), “if you can’t (’sdeath, 
what a twinge !) and he can ruin you , — bring him into 
the family, and make his secret ours! I must go and 
lie down, I have over-excited myself.” 

In great perplexity Beaufort repaired at once to Ca- 
milla. His nervous agitation betrayed itself, though he 
smiled a ghastly smile, and intended to be exceeding cool 
and collected. His questions, which confused and alarmed 
her, soon drew out the fact, that the very first time Yau- 
demont had been introduced to her, he had spoken of the 
Mortons ; and that he had often afterwards alluded to 
the subject, and seemed at first strongly impressed with 
the notion that the younger brother was under Beaufort’s 
protection ; though at last he appeared reluctantly con- 
vinced of the contrary. Robert, however agitated, pre- 
served at least enough of his natural slyness not to let 
out that he suspected Yaudemont to be Philip Morton 
himself, for he feared lest his daughter should betray that 
suspicion to its object. 

“But,” he said, with a look meant to win confidence, 
2q 


252 


NjlQHT and morning. 


“ I dare say he knows these young men. I should like 
rn/self to know more about them. Learn all you can, 
and tell me, and, I say — I say, Camilla, — he ! he ! he ! 
. — you have made a conquest, you little flirt, you ! Did 
he, this Yauderflont, ever say how much he admired you I” 

“He! — never!” said Camilla, blushing, and then 
turning pale. 

“But he looks it. Ah ! you say nothing, then. Well, 
well, don’t discourage him ; that is to say, — yes, don’t 
discourage him. Talk to him as much as you can, — 
ask him about his own early life. I’ve a particular wish 
to know — ’tis of great importance to me.” 

“But, my dear father,” said Camilla, trembling, and 
thoroughly bewildered, “I fear this man, — I fear — I 
fear — — ” 

Was she going to add, “I fear myself ?” I know 
not ; but she stopped short, and burst into tears. 

“ Hang these girls ! ” muttered Mr. Beaufort, “ always 
crying when they ought to be of use to one. Go down, 
dry your eyes, do as I tell you, — get all you can from 
him. Fear him ! — yes, I dare say she does ! ” muttered 
the poor man, as he closed the door. 

From that time what wonder that Camilla’s manner to 
Yaudemont was yet more embarrassed than ever: what 
wonder that he put his own heart’s interpretation on that 
confusion. Beaufort took care to thrust her more often 
than before in his way ; he suddenly affected a creeping, 
fawning civility to Yaudemont ; he was sure he was fond 
of music ; what did he think of that new air Camilla was 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 253 

so fond of? He must be a judge of scenery, he who had 
seen so much : there were beautiful landscapes in the 
neighborhood, and if he would forego his sports, Camilla 
drew prettily, had an eye for that sort of thing, and was 
so fond of riding. 

Vaudemont was astonished at this change, but his 
delight was greater than the astonishment. He began 
to perceive that his identity was suspected ; perhaps 
Beaufort, more generous than he had deemed him, meant 
to repay every early wrong or harshness by one inestimable 
blessing. The generous interpret motives in extremes — ■ 
ever too enthusiastic or too severe. Yaudemont felt as 
if he had wronged the wronger ; he began to conquer 
even his dislike to Robert Beaufort. For some days he 
was thus thrown much with Camilla ; the questions her 
father forced her to put to him, uttered tremulously and 
fearfully, seemed to him proofs of her interest in his fate 
His feelings to Camilla, so sudden in their growth — so 
ripened and so favored by the Sub-Ruler of the world — 
Circumstance — might not, perhaps, have the depth and 
the calm completeness of that One True Love, of which 
there are many counterfeits, — and which in Man, at least, 
possibly requires the touch and mellowness, if not of 
time, at least of many memories — of perfect and tried 
conviction of the faith, the worth, the value and the 
beauty of the heart to which it clings ; — but those feel- 
ings were, nevertheless, strong, ardent, and intense. He 
believed himself beloved — he was in Elysium. Blithe 
did dot yet declare the passion that beamed in his eyes. 
IT. — 22 


254 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


No 1 he would not yet claim the hand of Camilla Beau- 
fort, for he imagined the time would soon come when he 
could claim it, not as the inferior or the suppliant, but 
as the lord of her father’s fate. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Here’s something got amongst us! ” — Knight of Malta. 

Two or three nights after his memorable conversation 
with Robert Beaufort, as Lord Lilburne was undressing 
he said to his valet, — 

“ Dykeman, I am getting well.” 

“ Indeed, my lord, I never saw your lordship look 
better.” 

“ There you lie. I looked better last year — I looked 
better the year before — and I looked better and better 
every year back to the age of twenty-one 1 But I’m not 
talking of looks, no man with money wants looks. I am 
talking of feelings. I feel better. The gout is almost 
gone. I have been quiet now for a month — that’s a long 
time — time wasted when, at my age, I have so little time 
to waste. Besides, as you know, I am very much in 
love ! ” 

“ In love, my lord ? I thought that you told me never 
to speak of ” 

“ Blockhead 1 what the deuce was the good of speak- 
ing about it when I was wrapped in flannels ! I am never 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


255 


in love when I am ill — who is ? I am well now, or nearly 
so ; and I’ve had things to vex me — things to make this 
place very disagreeable ; I shall go to town, and before 
this day week perhaps, that charming face may enliven 
the solitude of Fernside. I shall look to it myself now. 

I see you’re goingto say something. Spare yourself the 
trouble I nothing ever goes wrong if I myself take it in 
hand.” 

The next day Lord Lilburne, who, in truth, felt him- 
self uncomfortable and gent in the presence of Yaude- 
mont ; who had won as much as the guests at Beaufort 
Court seemed inclined to lose ; and who made it the rule 
of his life to consult his own pleasure and amusement be- 
fore anything else, sent for his post-horses, and informed 
his brother-in-law of his intended departure. 

“And you leave me alone with this man just when I am 
convinced that he is the person we suspected ! My dear 
Lilburne, do stay till he goes.” 

“ Impossible ! I am between fifty and sixty — every 
moment is precious at that time of life. Besides, I’ve 
said all I can say: rest quiet — act on the defensive — 
entangle this cursed Yaudemont, or Morton, or whoever 
he be, in the mesh of your daughter’s charms, and then 
get rid of him, not before. This can do no harm, let the 
matter turn out how it will. Read the papers ; and send 
for Blackwell if you want advice on any new advertise- 
ments. I don’t see that anything more is to be done at 
present. You can write to me ; I shall be at Park Lane 
or Fernside. Take care of yourself. You’re a lucky 
fellow — you never have the gout! Good-by.” 


256 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


And in half an hour Lord Lilburne was on the road to 
London. 

The departure of Lilburne was a signal to many others, 
especially and naturally to those he himself had invited. 
He had not announced to such visitors his intention of 
going till his carriage was at the door. This might be 
delicacy or carelessness, just as people chose to take it : 
and how they did take it, Lord Lilburne, much too selfish 
to be well-bred, did not care a rush. The next day, half 
at least of the guests were gone ; and even Mr. Marsden, 
who had been specially invited on Arthur’s account, an- 
nounced that he should go after dinner 1 he always travel- 
led by night — he slept well on the road — a day was not 
lost by it. 

“And it is so long since you saw Arthur,” said Mr. 
Beaufort, in remonstrance, “ and I expect him everyday.” 

“ Yery sorry — best fellow in the world — but the fact is, 
that I am not very well myself. I want a little sea air ; 
I shall go to Dover or Brighton. But I suppose you 
will have the house full again about Christmas ; in that 
case, I shall be delighted to repeat my visit ” 

The fact was, that Mr. Marsden, without Lilburne’s 
intellect on the one hand, or vices on the other, was, like 
that noble sensualist, one of the brpken pieces of the 
great looking-glass “ Self.” He was noticed in society, 
as always haunting the places where Lilburne played at 
cards, carefully choosing some other table, and as care- 
fully betting upon Lilburne’s side. The card-table:; were 
now broken up; Yaudemont’s superiority in shooting, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


251 


and the manner in which he engrossed the talk of the 
sportsmen, displeased him. He was bored — he wanted 
to be off — and off he went. Yaudemont felt that the 
time was come for him to depart, too ; but Robert Beau- 
fort — who felt in his society the painful fascination of the 
bird with the boa, who hated to see him there, and dreaded 
to see him depart, who had not yet extracted all the con- 
firmation of his persuasions that he required, for Yaude- 
mont easily enough parried the artless questions of 
Camilla — pressed him to stay with so eager an hospitality, 
and made Camilla herself falter out, against her will and 
even against her remonstrances — (she never before had 
dared to remonstrate with either father or mother), — 
“ Could not you stay a few days longer ? ” — that Yaude- 
mont was too contented to yield to his own inclinations ; 
and so for some little time longer, he continued to move 
before the eyes of Mr. Beaufort — stern, sinister, silent, 
mysterious — like one of the family pictures stepped down 
from its frame. Yaudemont wrote, however, to Fanny, 
to excuse his delay ; and anxious to hear from her as to 
her own and Simon’s health, bade her direct her letter to 
his lodging in London (of which he gave her the address), 
whence, if he still continued to defer his departure, it 
would be forwarded to him. He did not do this, how- 
ever, till he had been at Beaufort Court several days after 
Lilburne’s departure, and till, in fact, two days before the 
eventful one which closed his visit. 

The party, now greatly diminished, were at breakfast, 
when the servant entered, as usual, with the letter-bag. 

22 * R 


•258 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Mr. Beaufort, who was always important and pompous in 
the small ceremonials of life, unlocked the precious de- 
posit with slow dignity, drew forth the newspapers, which 
he threw on the table, and which the gentlemen of the 
party eagerly seized ; then, diving out one by one, jerked 
first a letter to Camilla, next a letter to Yaudemont, and 
thirdly, seized a letter for himself. 

“ I beg that there may be no ceremony, Monsieur de 
Yaudemont : pray excuse me and follow my example : I 
see this letter is from my son ; ” and he broke the seal. 

The letter ran thus : 

“ My dear Father, 

“ Almost as soon as you receive this, I shall be with 
you. Ill as I am, I can have no peace till I see and con- 
sult you. The most startling — the most painful intelli- 
gence has just been conveyed to me. It is of a nature 
not to bear any but personal communication. 

“Your affectionate Son, 

“ Arthur Beaufort. 

“ Boulogne. 

“ P S. — This will go by the same packet-boat that I 
shall take myself, and can only reach you a few hours be- 
fore I arrive.” 

Mr. Beaufort’s trembling hand dropped the letter — he 
grasped the elbow of the chair to save him from falling. 
It was clear ! — the same visitor who had persecuted him- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


259 


self had now sought his son ! He grew sick, his son 
might have heard the witness — might be convinced. His 
son himself now appeared to him as a foe — ior the father 
dreaded the son’s honor ! He glanced furtively round the 
table, till his eye rested on Y audemont, and his terror was 
redoubled, for Yaudemont’s face, usually so calm, was 
animated to an extraordinary degree, as he now lifted it 
from the letter he had just read. Their eyes met. Ro- 
bert Beaufort looked on him as a prisoner at the bar looks 
on the accusing counsel, when he first commences his 
harangue. 

“Mr. Beaufort,” said the guest, “the letter you have 
given me summons me to London on important business, 
and immediately. Suffer me to send for horses at your 
earliest convenience.” 

“What’s the matter?” said the feeble and seldom- 
heard voice of Mrs. Beaufort. “ What’s the matter, Ro- 
bert? — is Arthur coming?” 

« He comes to-day,” said the father, with a deep sigh ; 
Yaudemont, at that moment rising from his half-finished 
breakfast, with a bow that included the group, and with a 
glance that lingered on Camilla, as she bent over her own 
unopened letter, (a letter from Winandermere, the seal 
of which she dared not yet to break,) quitted the room. 
He hastened to his own chamber, and strode to and fro 
with a stately step — the step of the Master — then, taking 
forth the letter, he again hurried over its contents. They 
ran thus : — 


260 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Dear Sir, 

“ At last the missing witness has applied to me. He 
proves to be, as you conjectured, the same person who 
had called on Mr. Roger Morton ; but as there are some 
circumstances on which I wish to take your instructions 
without a moment’s delay, I shall leave London by the 

mail, and wait you at D (at the principal inn), which 

is, I understand, twenty miles, on the high road, from 
Beaufort Court. 

“I have the honor to be, sir, 

“Yours, &c., 

“John Barlow. 

“ Essex Street.” 

Yaudemont was yet lost in the emotions that this letter 
aroused, when they came to announce that his chaise was 
arrived. As he went down the stairs he met Camilla, who 
was on the way to her own room. 

“ Miss Beaufort,” said he, in a low and tremulous voice, 
“ in wishing you farewell, I may not now say more. I 
leave you, and, strange to say, I do not regret it, for I go 
upon an errand that may entitle me to return again, and 
speak those thoughts which are uppermost in my soul, 
even at this moment.” 

He raised her hand to his lips as he spoke, and at that 
moment Mr. Beaufort looked from the door of his own 
room, and cried “ Camilla.” She was too glad to escape. 
Philip gazed after her light form for an instant, and then 
hurried down the stairs. 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


261 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Longuevitte. — What ! are you married, Beaufort? 

Beaufort. — Ay, as fast 

As words, ana hands, and hearts, and priest, 

Could make us.” — Beaumont and Fletcher: 

Noble Gentleman. 

In the parlor of the inn at D sat Mr. John Barlow 

He had just finished his breakfast, and was writing letters 
and looking over papers connected with his various busi- 
ness — when the door was thrown open, and a gentleman 
entered abruptly. 

“ Mr. Beaufort,” said the lawyer, rising, — “ Mr. Philip 
Beaufort — for such I now feel you are by right— though,” 
he added, with his usual formal and quiet smile, “ not yet 
by law ; and much — very much, remains to be done to 
make the law and the right the same ; — I congratulate 
you on having something at last to work on. I had begun 
to despair of finding up our witness, after a month’s ad- 
vertising ; and had commenced other investigations, of 
which I will speak to you presently, when yesterday on 
my return to town from an errand on your business, I 
had the pleasure of a visit from William Smith himself. — 
My dear sir, do not yet be too sanguine. — It seems that 
this poor fellow, having known misfortune, was in America 
when the first fruitless inquiries were made. Long after 


262 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


this he returned to the colony, .and there met with a bro- 
ther, who, as I drew from him, was a convict. He helped 
the brother to escape. They both came to England. Wil- 
liam learned from a distant relation, who lent him some 
little money, of the inquiry that had been set on foot for 
him ; consulted his brother, who desired him to leave all 
to his management. The brother afterwards assured him 
that you and Mr. Sidney were both dead ; and it seems 
(for the witness is simple enough to allow me to extract 
all), this same brother then went to Mr. Beaufort, to hold 
out the threat of a lawsuit, and to offer the sale of the 
evidence yet existing ” 

“And Mr. Beaufort ? ” 

“ I am happy to say, seems to have spurned the offer 
Meanwhile William, incredulous of his brother’s report, 

proceeded to N , learned nothing from Mr. Morton, 

met his brother again — and the brother (confessing that 
he had deceived him in the assertion that you and Mr. 
Sidney were dead) told him that he had known you in 
earlier life, and set out to Paris to seek you ” 

“Known me? — To Paris?” 

“ More of this presently. William returned to town, 
living hardly and penuriously on the little his brother be- 
stowed on him, too melancholy and too poor for the luxury 
of a newspaper, and never saw our advertisement, till, as 
luck would have it, his money was out ; he had heard no- 
thing further of his brother, and he went for new assist- 
ance to the same relation who had before aided him. This 
relation, to his surprise, received the poor man very kindl 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


263 


lent him what he wanted and then asked him if he had 
not seen our advertisement. The newspaper shown him 
contained both the advertisements — that relating to Mr. 
Morton’s visitor, that containing his own name. He 
coupled them both together — called on me at once. I 
was from town on your business. He returned to his 
own home ; the next morning (yesterday morning) came 
a letter from his brother, which I obtained from him at 
last, and with promises that no harm should happen to 
the writer on account of it.” 

Vaudemont took the letter and read as follows : — 

“ Dear William, — No go about the youngster I went 
after : all researches in vane. Paris develish expensive. 

Never mind, I have sene the other — the young B ; 

different sort of fellow from his father — very ill — fright- 
ened out of his wits — will go off to the governor, take 
me with him as far as Bullone. I think we shall settel it 
now. Mind as I saide before, don’t put your foot in it. 
I send you a Nap in the Seele — all I can spare. 

“ Yours, 

“Jeremiah Smith 

“ Direct to me, Monsieur Smith — always a safe name 
— Ship Inn Bullone.” 

“ Jeremiah — Smith — Jeremiah ! ” 

“ Do you know the name, then ? ” said Mr. Barlow. 
“ Well ; the poor man owns that he was frightened at his 
brother — that he wished to do what is right — that he 


264 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

feared his brother would not let him — that your father 
was very kind to him — and so he came off at once to 
me ; and I was very luckily at home to assure him that 
the heir was alive, and prepared to assert his rights. 
Now then, Mr Beaufort, we have the witness, but will 
that suffice us? I fear not. Will the jury believe him 
with no other testimony at his back ? Consider ! — When 
he was gone I put myself in communication with some 
officers at Bow Street about this brother of his — a most 
notorious character, commonly called in the police slang 

Dashing Jerry ” 

“Ah 1 Well, proceed!” 

“ Your one witness, then, is a very poor, penniless man 
— his brother a rogue, a c6nvict : this witness, too, is the 
most timid, fluctuating, irresolute fellow I ever saw : I 
should tremble for his testimony against a sharp, bullying 
lawyer. And that, sir, is all at present we have to 
look to.” 

“ I see — I see. It is dangerous — it is hazardous. But 
truth is truth ; justice — justice ! I will run the risk.” * 
“ Pardon me, if I ask, did you ever know his brother ? 
— were you ever absolutely acquainted with him — in the 
same house ? ” 

“ Many years since — years of early hardship and trial 
— I was acquainted with him — what then ? ” 

" I am sorry to hear it,” and the lawyer looked grave 
“ Do you not see that if this witness is browbeat — is dis- 
believed, and if it can be shown that you, the claimant, 
was — forgive my saying it — intimate with a brother of 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


265 


such a character, why the whole thing might be made to 
look like perjury and conspiracy. If we stop here, it is 
an ugly business ! ” 

“And is this all you have to say to me ? The witness 
is found — the only surviving witness — the only proof I 
ever shall or ever can obtain, and you seek to terrify me 
— me too — from using the means for redress Providence 
itself vouchsafes me ; — Sir, I will not hear you ! 11 

“ Mr. Beaufort, you are impatient — it is natural. But 
if we go to law — that is, should I have anything to do 
with it, wait — wait till your case is good. And hear me 
yet. This is not the only proof — this is not the only 
witness : you forget that there was an examined copy of 
the register ; we may yet find that copy, and the person 
who copied it may yet be alive to attest it. Occupied 
with this thought, and weary of waiting the result of oui 
advertisement, I resolved to go into the neighborhood of 
Fernside : luckily, there was a gentleman’s seat to be sold 
in the village. I made the survey of this place my appa- 
rent business. After going over the house, I appeared 
anxious to see how far some alterations could be made — 
alterations to render it more like Lord Lilburne’s villa. 
This led me to request a sight of that villa — a crown to 
the housekeeper got me admittance. The housekeeper 
had lived with your father, and been retained by his lord- 
ship. I soon, therefore, knew which were the rooms the 
late Mr. Beaufort had principally occupied ; shown into 
his study, where it was probable he would keep his papers, 
[ inquired if it were tlje same furniture (which seemed 

II. —23 


266 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


likely enoagh from its age and fashion) as in your father’s 
time : it was so ; Lord Lilbnrne had bought the house 
just as it stood, and, save a few additions in the drawing- 
room, the general equipment of the villa remained unal- 
tered. You look impatient ! — I’m coming to the point. 
My eye fell upon an old-fashioned bureau ” 

“But we searched every drawer in that bureau 1 ” 

“Any secret drawers ? ” 

“ Secret drawers ! No 1 there were no secret drawers 
that I ever heard of ! ” 

Mr. Barlow rubbed his hands and mused a moment. 

“ I was struck with that bureau ; for my father had had 
one like it. It is not English — it is of Dutch manufac- 
ture.” 

“ Yes, I have heard that my father bought it at a sale, 
three or four years after his marriage.” 

“ I learned this from the housekeeper, who was flattered 
by my admiring it. I could not find out from her at what 
sale it had been purchased, but it was in the neighborhood 
she was sure. I had now a date to go upon ; I learned, 
by careless inquiries, what sales near Fernside had taken 
place in a certain year. A gentleman had died at that 
date, whose furniture was sold by auction. With great 
difficulty, I found that his widow was still alive, living far 
up the country : I paid her a visit ; and, not to fatigue 
you with too long an account, I have only to say, that 
she not only assured me that she perfectly remembered 
the bureau, but that it had secret drawers and wells, very 
curiously contrived ; nay, she showed me the very cata 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


267 


logue in which the said receptacles are noticed in capitals, 
to arrest the eye of the bidder, and increase the price of 
the bidding. That your father should never have re- 
vealed where he stowed this document is natural enough, 
during the life of his uncle ; his own life was not spared 
long enough to give him much opportunity to explain af- 
terwards, but I feel perfectly persuaded in my own mind 
• — that unless Mr. Robert Beaufort discovered that paper 
amongst the others he examined — in one of those drawers 
will be found all we want to substantiate your claims. 
This is the more likely from your father never mentioning, 
even to your mother apparently, the secret receptacles in 
the bureau. Why else such mystery ? The probability 
is that he received the document either just before or at 
the time he purchased the bureau, or that he bought it 
for that very purpose : — and, having once deposited the 
paper in a place he deemed secure from curiosity — acci- 
dent, carelessness, policy, perhaps, rather shame itself 
(pardon me) for the doubt of your mother’s discretion, 
that his secrecy seemed to imply, kept him from ever al- 
luding to the circumstance, even when the intimacy of 
after-years made him more assured of your mother’s self- 
sacrificing devotion to his interests. At his uncle’s death 
he thought to repair all ! ” 

“And now, if that be true — if that Heaven which has 
delivered me hitherto from so many dangers, has, in the 
very secrecy of my poor father, saved my birthright from 

the gripe of the usurper — how, I say, is ” 

“ The bureau to pass into our possession ? That is the 
2r 


268 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


difficulty. But we must contrive it somehow, if all else 
fail us ; meanwhile, as I now feel sure that there has been 
a copy of that register made, I wish to know whether I 
should not immediately cross the country into Wales, and 
see if I can find any person in the neighborhood of 
A * * * who did examine the copy taken : for, mark you, 
the said copy is only of importance as leading us to the 
testimony of the actual witness who took it.” 

“Sir,” said Yaudemont, heartily shaking Mr. Barlow 
by the hand, “ forgive my first petulance. I see in you 
the very man I desired and wanted — your acuteness sur- 
prises and encourages me. Go to Wales, and God speed 
you ! ” 

“Very well! — in five minutes I shall be off. Mean- 
while, see the witness yourself; the sight of his benefac- 
tor’s son will do more to keep him steady than anything 
else. There’s his address, and take care not to give him 
money. And now I will order my chaise — the matter 
begins to look worth expense. Oh ! I forgot to say that 
Monsieur Liancourt called on me yesterday about his 
own affairs. He wishes much to consult you. I told 
him you would probably be this evening in town, and he 
said he would wait you at your lodging.” 

“ Yes — I will lose not a moment in going to London, 
and visiting our witness. And he saw my mother at the 
altar! — My poor mother — Ah, how could my father 
have doubted her ! ” and as he spoke, he blushed for the 
first time with shame, at that father’s memory. He could 
not yet conceive that one so frank, one usually so bold 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 263 

and open, could for years have preserved from the woman 
who had sacrificed all to him, a secret to her so important 1 
That was, in fact, the only blot on his father’s honor — a 
foul and a grave blot it was. — Heavily had the punish- 
ment fallen on those whom the father loved best ! Alas, 
Philip had not yet learned what terrible corrupters are 
the Hope and the Fear of immense Wealth — ay, even to 
men reputed the most honorable, if they had been reared 
and pampered in the belief that wealth is the Arch 
blessing of life ! Rightly considered, in Philip Beaufort’s 
solitary meanness lay the vast moral of this world’s 
darkest truth ! 

Mr. Barlow was gone. Philip was about to enter his 
own chaise, when a dormeuse-and-four drove up to the 
inn-door to change horses. A young man was reclining, 
at his length, in the carriage, wrapped in cloaks, and 
with a ghastly paleness — - the paleness of long and deep 
disease — upon his cheeks. He turned his dim eye with, 
perhaps, a glance of the sick man’s envy on that strong 
and athletic form, majestic with health and vigor, as it 
stood beside the more humble vehicle. Philip did not, 
however, notice the new arrival ; he sprang \\t o the 
chaise, it rattled on, and thus, unconsciousl), Ailkur 
Beaufort and his cousin had again met. To v Ui V 
now the Night — to which the Morning ? 


23 * 


270 


NTGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ Bakum. — Let my men guard the walls. 

Syana. — And mind the temple .” — The Island Princess . 

While thus eventfully the days and the weeks had 
passed for Philip, no less eventfully, so far as the inner 
life is concerned, had they glided away for Fanny. She 
had feasted in quiet and delighted thought on the con- 
sciousness that she was improving — that she was growing 
worthier of him-dhat he would perceive it on his return. 
Her manner was more thoughtful, more collected — less 
childish, in short, than it had been. And yet, with all 
the stir and flutter of the aroused intellect, the charm of 
her strange innocence was not scared away. She rejoiced 
in the ancient liberty she had regained of going out and 
coming back when she pleased ; and as the weather was 
too cold ever to tempt Simon from his fireside, except, 
perhaps, for half-an-hour in the forenoon, so, the hours of 
dusk, when he least missed her, were those which she 
chiefly appropriated for stealing away to the good school- 
mistress, and growing wiser and wiser every day in the 
ways of God and the learning of His creatures. The 
schod-mistress was not a brilliant woman. Nor was it 
accomplishments of which Fanny stood in need, so much 
as the opening of her thoughts and mind by profitable 
books and rational conversation. Beautiful as were all 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


271 


her natural feelings, the school-mistress Rad now little 
difficulty in educating feelings up to the dignity of prin- 
ciples. 

At last, hitherto patient under the absence of one never 
absent from her heart, Fanny received from him the letter 
he had addressed to her two days before he quitted Beau- 
fort Court ; — another letter — a second letter — a letter 
to excuse himself for not coming before — a letter that 
go,ve her an address, that asked for a reply. It was a 
morning of unequalled delight, approaching to transport. 
And then the excitement of answering the letter — the 
pride of showing how she was improved, what an excellent 
hand she now wrote ! She shut herself up in her room : 
she did not go out that day. She placed the paper be- 
fore her, and, to her astonishment, all that she had to 
say vanished from her mind at once. How was she even 
to begin ? She had always hitherto called him “ Brother. ” 
Ever since her conversation with Sarah, she felt that she 
could not call him that name again for the world — no, 
never ! But what should she call him — what could she 
call him ? He signed himself “ Philip.” She knew that 
was his name. She thought it a musical name to utter, 
but to ■write it ! — No ! some instinct she could not account 
for seemed to whisper that it was improper — presumptuous, 
to call him “Dear Philip.” Had Burns’ songs — songs 
that unthinkingly he had put into her hand, and told her to 
read — songs that comprise the most beautiful love-poems 
in the world — had they helped to teach her some of the 
secrets of her own heart ? And had timidity come with know- 
ledge ? Who shall say — who guess what passed within her ? 


272 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Nor did Fanny herself, perhaps, know her own feelings: 
'but write the words “ Dear Philip ” she could not. And the 
whole of that day, though she thought of nothing else, she 
could not even get through the first line to her satisfaction. 
The next morning she sat down again. It would be so 
unkind if she did not answer immediately : she must 
answer. She placed his letter before her — she resolutely 
began. But copy after copy was made and torn. And 
Simon wanted her — and there were bills to be paid ; and 
dinner was over before her task was really begun. But 
after dinner she began in good earnest. 

“ How kind in you to write to me” (the difficulty of 
any name was dispensed with by adopting none), “ and to 
wish to know about my dear grandfather ! He is much 
the samd', but hardly ever walks out now, and I have had 
a good deal of time to myself. I think something will 
surprise you, and make you smile, as you used to do at 
first, when you come back. You must not be angry with 
me that I have gone out by myself very often — every 
day, indeed. I have been so safe. Nobody has ever 
offered to be rude again to Fanny” (the word ‘ Fanny 1 was 
here carefully scratched out with a penknife, and me 
substitude). “ But you shall know all when you come. 
And are you sure you are well — quite — quite well ? Do you 
never have the headaches you complained of sometimes ? 
Do say this ! Do you walk out — every day ? Is there 
any pretty church-yard near you now ? Whom do you 
walk with ? 

“ I have been so happy in putting the flowers on the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 27 ‘d 

two graves. But I still give yours the prettiest, though 
the other is so dear to me. I feel sad when I come to 
the last, but not when I look at the one I have looked at 
so long. Oh, how good you were ! But you don’t like 
me to thank you.” 

“This is very stupid 1 ” cried Fanny, suddenly throw- 
ing down her pen ; “and -I don’t think I am improved at 
all ; ” and she half cried with vexation. Suddenly a bright 
idea crossed her. In the little parlor where the school- 
mistress privately received her, she had seen among the 
books, and thought at the time how useful it might be to 
her if ever she had to write to Philip, a little volume en- 
titled, “The Complete Letter- Writer.” She knew by 
the title-page that it. contained models for every descrip- 
tion of letter — no doubt it would contain the precise thing 
that would suit the present occasion. She started up at 
the notion. She would go — she could be back to finish 
the letter before post-time. She put on her bonnet — left 
the letter, in her haste, open on the table — and, just look- 
ing into the parlor in her way to the street-door, to con- 
vince herself that Simon was asleep, and the wire-guard 
was on the fire, she hurried to the kind school-mistress. 

One of the fogs that in autumn gather sullenly over 
London and its suburbs covered the declining day with 
premature dimness. It grew darker and darker as she 
proceeded, but she reached the house in safety. She 
spent a quarter of an hour in timidly consulting her friend 
about all kind of letters except the identical one that she 
intended to write, and having had it strongly impressed 

a 


23 * 


274 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


on her mind that if the letter was to a gentleman ut ah 
genteel, she ought to begin “ Dear Sir,” and end with “I 
have the honor to remain ; ” and that he would be ever- 
lastingly offended if she did not in the address affix 
“ Esquire ” to his name (that was a great discovery), — 
she carried off the precious volume, and quitted the house. 
There was a wall that, bounding the demesnes of the 
school, ran for some short distance into the main street. 
The increasing fog, here, faintly struggled against the 
glimmer of a single lamp at some little distance. Just in 
this spot, her eye was caught by a dark object in the road, 
which she could scarcely perceive to be a carriage, when 
her hand was seized, and a voice said in her ear, — 

“Ah ! you will not be so cruel to me, I hope, as you 
were to my messenger ! I have come myself for you.” 

She turned in great alarm, but the darkness prevented 
her recognising the face of him who thus accosted her. 

“ Let me go ! ” she cried, — “ let me go ! ” 

“Hush! hush! No — no! Come with me. You 
shall have a house — carriage — servants ! You shall 
wear silk gowns and jewels ! You shall be a great lady ! ” 
As these various temptations succeeded in rapid course 
each new struggle of Fanny, a voice from the coach-box 
said, in a low tone, — 

“ Take care, my lord, I see somebody coming — perhaps 
a policeman-!” 

Fanny heard the caution, and screamed for rescue. 
“Is it so ? ” muttered the molester. And suddenly 
Fanny felt her voice checked — her head mantled — hei 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


275 


light form lifted from the ground. She clung — she 
struggled — it was in vain. It was the affair of a 
moment: she felt herself borne into the carriage — the 
door closed — the stranger was by her side, and his voice 
said, — 

“ Drive on, Dykeman. Fast 1 fast ! ” 

Two or three minutes, which seemed to her terror as 
ages, elapsed, when the gag and the mantle were gently 
removed, and the same voice (she still could not see her 
companion) said, in a very mild tone, — 

“Do not alarm yourself; there is no cause, — indeed 
there is not. I would not have adopted this plan had 
there been any other — any gentler one. But I could not 
call at your own house — I knew no other where to meet 
you. This was the only course left to me — indeed it 
was. I made myself acquainted with your movements. 
Do not blame me, then, for prying into your footsteps. 
I watched you all last night — you did not come out. I 
was in despair. At last I find you. Do not be so ter- 
rified : I will not even touch your hand if you do not 
wish it.” 

As he spoke, however, he attempted to touch it, and 
was repulsed with an energy that rather disconcerted 
him. The poor girl recoiled from him into the farthest 
corner of that prison in speechless horror — in the darkest 
confusion of ideas. She did not weep — she did not sob 
— but her trembling seemed to shake the very carriage. 
The man continued to address, to expostulate, to pray, 
to soothe. His manner was respectful. His protesta- 


276 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


tions that he would not harm her for the world were 
endless. 

“ Only just see the home I can give you ; for two days 
— for one day. Only just hear how rich I can make you 
and your grandfather, and then , if you wish to leave me, 
you shall. ” 

More, much more, to this effect, did he continue to 
pour forth, without extracting any sound from Fanny 
but gasps as for breath, and now and then a low 
murmur, — 

“ Let me go, let me go ! My grandfather, my blind 
grandfather !” 

And finally tears came to her relief, and she sobbed 
with a passion that alarmed, and perhaps even touched, 
her companion, cynical and icy as he was. Meanwhile 
the carriage seemed to fly. Fast as two horses, thorough- 
bred, and almost at full speed, could go, they were 
whirled along, till about an hour, or even less, from the 
time in which she had been thus captured, the carriage 
stopped. 

“ Are we here already ? ” said the man, putting his 
head out of the window. “ Do then as I told you. Not 
to the front door ; to my study. ” 

In two minutes more the carriage halted again before 
a building, which looked white and ghost-like through 
the mist. The driver dismounted, opened with a latch- 
key a window-door, entered for a moment to light the 
candles in a solitary room from a fire that blazed on the 
hearth, reappeared, and opened the -Carriage-door. It 
was with a difficulty for which they were scarcely pre- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 27' 7 

pared that they were enabled to get Fanny from the 
carriage. No soft words, no whispered prayers could 
draw her forth ; and it was with no trifling address, for 
her companion sought to be as gentle as the force neces- 
sary to employ .would allow, that he disengaged her 
hands from the window-frame, the lining, the cushions, to 
which they clung ; and at last bore her into the house. 
The driver closed the window again as he retreated, and 
they were alone. Fanny then cast a wild, scarce con- 
scious glance over the apartment. It was small and 
simply furnished. Opposite to her was an old-fashioned 
bureau, one of those quaint, elaborate monuments of 
Dutch ingenuity, which, during the present century, the 
audacious spirit of curiosity-vendors has transplanted 
from their native receptacles,- to contrast, with grotesque 
strangeness, the neat handiwork of Grillow and Seddon. 
It had a physiognomy and character of its own — this 
fantastic foreigner ! Inlaid with mosaics, depicting land- 
scapes and animals ; graceless in form and fashion, but 
still picturesque, and winning admiration, when more 
closely observed, from the patient defiance of all rules of 
taste which had formed its cumbrous parts into one pro- 
fusely ornamented and eccentric whole. It was the more 
noticeable from its total want of harmony with the other 
appurtenances of the room, which bespoke the tastes of 
the plain English squire. Prints of horses and hunts, 
fishing-rods and fowling-pieces, carefully suspended f 
decorated the walls. Not, however, on this notable 
stranger from the sluggish land, rested the eye of Fanny 
II. — 24 


278 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


That , in her harried survey, was arrested only by a 
portrait placed over the bureau — the portrait of a 
female in the bloom of life; a face so fair, a brow so 
candid, an eye so pure, a lip so rich in youth and joy — 
that as her look lingered on the features, Fanny felt com- 
forted, felt as if some living protectress were there. The 
fire burned bright and merrily; a table spread as for 
dinner, was drawn near it. To any other eye but 
Fanny’s the place would have seemed a picture of 
English comfort. At last her looks rested on her com- 
panion. He had thrown himself, with a long sigh, partly 
of fatigue, partly of satisfaction, on one of the chairs, and 
was contemplating her as she thus stood and gazed, with 
an expression of mingled curiosity and admiration : she 
recognised at once her first, her only persecutor. She 
recoiled, and covered her face with her hands. The man 
approached her : — 

“Do not hate me, Fanny, — do not turn away 
Believe me, though I have acted thus violently, here all 
violence will cease. I love you, but I will not be satisfied 
till you love me in return. I am not young, and I am 
not handsome, but I am rich and great, and I can make 
those whom I love happy, — so happy, Fanny ! ” 

But Fanny had turned away, and was now busily em- 
ployed in trying to re-open the door at which she had 
entered. Failing in this, she suddenly darted away, 
opened the inner door, and rushed into the passage with 
a loud cry. Her persecutor stifled an oath, and sprang 
after and arrested her. He now spoke sternly, and with 
a smil and a frown at once : — 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


279 


“ This is folly ; — come back, or you will repent it. .1 
have promised you, as a gentleman — as a nobleman, if 
you know what that is, to respect you. But neither will 
I myself be trifled with nor insulted. There must be no 
screams ! ” 

His look and his voice awed Fanny in spite of her be- 
wilderment and her loathing, and she suffered herself pas- 
sively to be drawn into the room. He closed and bolted 
the door. She threw herself on the ground in one corner, 
and moaned low but piteously. He looked at her mu- 
singly for some moments, as he stood by the fire, and at 
last went to the door, opened it, and called “ Harriet ” in 
a low voice. Presently a young woman, of about thirty, 
appeared, neatly but plainly dressed, and of a countenance 
that, if not very winning, might certainly be called very 
handsome. He drew her aside for a few moments, and a 
whispered conference was exchanged. He then walked 
gravely up to Fanny : — 

“ My young friend,” said he, “ I see my presence is too 
much for you this evening. This young woman will at- 
tend you — will get you all you want. She can tell you, 
too, that I am not the terrible sort of person you seem to 
suppose. I shall see you to-morrow.” So saying, he 
turned on his heel and walked out. 

Fanny felt something like liberty, something like joy, 
again. She rose, and looked so pleadingly, so earnestly, 
so intently into the woman’s face, that Harriet turned away 
her bold eyes abashed ; and at this moment Dykeman 
himself looked into the room. 


280 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“You are to bring us in dinner here yourself, uncle ; 
and then go to my lord in the drawing-room.” 

Dykeman looked pleased, and vanished. Then Harriet 
came up and took Fanny’s hand, and said kindly, — 

“ Don’t be frightened. I assure you, half the girls in 
London would give I don’t know what to be in your place. 
My lord never will force you to do anything you don’t 
like — it’s not his way ; and he’s the kindest and best 
man, — and so rich ; he does not know what to do with 
his money 1 ” 

To all this Fanny made but one answer, — she threw 
herself suddenly upon the woman’s breast, and sobbed 
out, — 

“ My grandfather is blind, he cannot do without me — 
he will die — die. Have you nobody you love, too ? Let 
me go — let me out I What can they want with me ? — 
[ never did harm to any one.” 

“And no one will harm you ; — I swear it!” said Har- 
riet, earnestly. “ I see you don’t know my lord. But 
here’s the dinner, come and take a bit of something, and 
a glass of wine.” 

Fanny could not touch anything except a glass of water, 
and that nearly choked her. But at last, as she recovered 
her senses, the absence of her tormentor — the presence 
of a woman — the solemn assurances of Harriet that, if 
she did not like to stay there, after a day or two she should 
go back, tranquillized her in some measure. She did not 
heed the artful and lengthened eulogiums that the she- 
tempter then proceeded to pour forth upon the virtues, 
and the love, and the generosity, and, above all, the 


\ 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


281 


money of my lord. She only kept repeating to herself 
“I shall go back in a day or two.” At length, Harriet, 
having ate and drunk as much as she could by her single 
self, and growing wearied with efforts from which so little 
resulted, proposed to Fanny to retire to rest. She opened 
a door to the right of the fireplace, and lighted her up a 
winding stair-case to a pretty and comfortable chamber, 
where she offered to help her to undress. Fanny’s com- 
plete innocence, and her utter ignorance of the precise 
nature of the danger that awaited her, though she fancied 
it must be very great and very awful, prevented her quite 
comprehending all that Harriet meant to convey by her 
solemn assurances that she should not be disturbed. But 
she understood, at least, that she was not to see her hate- 
ful gaoler till the next morning ; and when Harriet, wish- 
ing her “ good night,” showed her a bolt to her door, she 
was less terrified at the thought of being alone in that 
strange place. She listened till Harriet’s footsteps had 
died away, and then, with a beating heart, tried to open 
the door ; it was locked from without. She sighed heavily. 

The window ? alas ! when she had removed the shutter, 

there was another one barred from without, which pre- 
cluded all hope there ; she had no help for it but to bolt 
her door, stand forlorn and amazed at her own condition, 
and, at last, falling on her knees, to pray, in her own sim- 
ple fashion, which since her recent visits to the school-mis- 
tress had become more intelligent and earnest, to Him 
from whom no bolts and no bars can exclude the voice of 
the human heart. 

24 * 


282 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“In te omnis domus inclinata recumbit.” * — Virgil. 

Lo.id Lilburne, seated before a tray in the drawing- 
room, was finishing his own solitary dinner, and Dyke- 
man was standing close behind him, nervous and agitated. 
The confidence of many years between the master and the 
servant — the peculiar mind of Lilburne, which excluded 
him from all friendship with his own equals — had estab- 
lished between the two the kind of intimacy so common 
with the noble and the valet of the old French regime ; 
and indeed in much, Lilburne more resembled the man 
of that day and land, than he did the nobler and statelier 
being which belongs to our own. But to the end of time, 
whatever is at once vicious, polished and intellectual, will 
have a common likeness 

“But, my lord,” said Dykeman, “just reflect. This 
girl is so well known in the place ; she will be sure to be 
missed ; and if any violence is done to her, it’s a capital 
crime, my lord — a capital crime. I know they can’t 
hang a great lord like you, but all concerned in it may ” 

Lord Lilburne interrupted the speaker by — “ Give me 
some wine and hold your tongue ! ” Then, when he had 
emptied his glass, he drew himself nearer to the fire, 


* On thee the whole house rests confidingly. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


288 


warmed his hands, mused a moment, and turned round tc 
his confidant : — 

“Dykeman,” said he, “though you’re an ass and a 
coward, and you don’t deserve that I should be so con- 
descending, I will relieve your fears at once. I know the 
law better than you can, for my whole life has been spent 
in doing exactly as I please, without ever putting myself 
in the power of LAW, which interferes with the pleasures 
of other men. You are right in saying violence would 
be a capital crime. Now the difference between vice and 
crime is this : Vice is what parsons write sermons against, 
— Crime is w T hat we make laws against. I never com- 
mitted a crime in all my life, — at an age between fifty 
and sixty I am not going to begin. Yices are safe 
things : I may have my vices like other men : but crimes 
are dangerous things — illegal things — things to be 
carefully avoided. Look you,” (and here the speaker 
fixing his puzzled listener with his eye, broke into a grin 
of sublime mockery), “let me suppose you to be the 
World — that cringing valet of valets, the World! I 
should say to you this, — ‘My dear World, you and I 
understand each other well, — we are made for each 
other, — I never come in your way, nor you in mine. 
If I get drunk every day in my own room, that’s vice, 
you can’t touch me; if I take an extra glass for the first 
time in my life, and knock down the watchman, that’s a 
crime which, if I am rich, costs me one pound — perhaps 
five pounds ; if I am poor, sends me to the treadmill. If 
I break the hearts of five hundred old fathers, by buying 

2s 


284 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

with gold or flattery, the embraces of five hundred young 
daughters, that’s vice, — your servant, Mr. World 1 If 
one termagant wench scratches my face, makes a noise, 
and goes brazen-faced to the Old Bailey to swear to her 
shame, why that’s crime, and my friend, Mr. World, pulls 
a hemp-rope out of his pocket.’ Now, do you understand ? 
Yes, I repeat,” he added, with a change of voice, “ I 
never committed a crime in my life, — I have never even 
been accused of one, — never had an action of cvim. con. 

of seduction against me. I know how to manage such 

matters better. I was forced to carry off this girl, be- 
cause I had no other means of courting her. To court 
her is all I mean to do now. I am perfectly aware that 
an Action for violence, as you call it, would be the more 
disagreeable, because of the very weakness of intellect 
which the girl is said to possess, and of which report I 
don’t believe a word. I shall most certainly, avoid every 
the remotest appearance that could be so construed. 
It is for that reason that no one in the house shall attend 
the girl except yourself and your niece. Your niece I 
can depend on, I know ; I have been kind to her ; I have 
got her a good husband : I shall get her husband a good 
place ; — I shall be godfather to her first child. To be 
sure, the other servants will know there’s a lady in the 
house, but to that they are accustomed ; I don’t set up 
for a Joseph. They need know no more, unless you 
choose to blab it out. Well, then, supposing that at the 
end of a few days, more or less, without any rudeness on 
my part, a young womafl, after seeing a few jewels, and 

/ 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


28 E 


fine dresses, and a pretty house, and being made very 
comfortable, and being convinced that her grandfather 
shall be taken care of without her slaving herself to death, 
chooses of her own^accord to live with me, where’s the 
crime, and who can interfere with it ? ” 

“ Certainly, my lord, that alters the case,” said Dyke- 
man, considerably relieved. “But still,” he added, 
anxiously, “if the inquiry is made, — if before all this is 
settled, it is found out where she is ? ” 

“ Why then no harm will be done — no violence will be 
committed. Her grandfather, — drivelling and a miser, 
you say, — can be appeased by a little money, and it will 
be nobody’s business, and no case can be made of it. 
Tush I man ! I always look before I leap ! People in 
this world are not so charitable as you suppose. What 
more natural than that a poor and pretty girl — not as 
wise as Queen Elizabeth — should be tempted to pay a 
visit to a rich lover 1 All they can say of the lover is, 
that he is a very gay man or a very bad man, and that’s 
saying nothing new of me. But I don’t think it will be 
found out. Just get me that stool ; this has been a very 
troublesome piece of business — rather tired me. I am 
not so young as I was. Yes, Dykeman, something which 
that Frenchman Yaudemont, or Yaut-rien, or whatever 
his name is, said to me once, has a certain degree of 
truth. I felt it in the last fit of the gout, when my pretty 
niece was smoothing my pillows. A nurse, as we grow 
older, may be of use to one I wish to make this girl 
like me, or be grateful to me. I am meditating a longer 


286 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


and more serious attachment than usual, — a compan 
ion ? ” 

“A companion, my lord, in that poor creature! — so 
ignorant — so uneducated ! ” 

“ So much the better. This world palls upon me,* 
said Lilburne, almost gloomily. “I grow sick of thfc 
miserable quackeries — of the piteous conceits that men, 
women, and children, call “knowledge.” I wish to catch 
a glimpse of nature before I die. This creature interests 
me, and that is something in this life. Clear those things 
away, and leave me.” 

“ Ay ! ” muttered Lilburne, as he bent over the fire 
alone, “ when I first heard that that girl was the grand- 
daughter of Simon Gawtrey, and, therefore, the child of 
the man whom I am to thank that I am a cripple, I felt 
as if love to her were a part of that hate which I owe to 
him ; a segment in the circle of my vengeance. But now , 
poor child ! I forget all this. I feel for her, not passion, 
but what I never felt before, affection. I feel that if I 
had such a child, I could understand what men mean 
when they talk of the tenderness of a father. I have not 
one impure thought for that girl — not one. But I would 
give thousands if she could love me. Strange ! strange ! 
in all this I do not recognise myself!” 

Lord Lilburne retired to rest betimes that night ; he 
slept sound ; rose refreshed at an earlier hour than usual ; 
and what he considered a fit of vapors of the previous 
night was passed away. He looked with eagerness to 
an interview with Fanny. Proud of his intellect, pleased 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


28 1 


in any of those sinister exercises of it, which the code and 
habits of his life so long permitted to him, he regarded 
the conquest of his fair adversary with the interest of a 
scientific game. Harriet went to Fanny’s room to pre- 
pare her to receive her host ; and Lord Lilburne now re- 
solved to make his own visit the less unwelcome, by re- 
serving for his especial gift some showy, if not valuable, 
trinkets, which for similar purposes never failed the de- 
positories of the villa he had purchased for his pleasures. 
He recollected that these gewgaws were placed in the 
bureau in the study ; in which, as having a lock of foreign 
and intricate workmanship, he usually kept whatever 
might tempt cupidity in those frequent absences when 
the house was left guarded but by two women servants. 
Finding that Fanny had not yet quitted her own chamber, 
while Harriet went up to attend and reason with her, he 
himself limped into the study below, unlocked the bureau, 
and was searching in the drawers, when he heard the 
voice of Fanny above, raised a little as if in remonstrance 
or entreaty ; and he paused to listen. He could not, how- 
ever, distinguish what was said ; and in the meanwhile, 
without attending much to what he was about, his hands 
were still employed iu opening and shutting the drawers, 
passing through the pigeon-holes, and feeling for a topaz 
brooch, which he thought could not fail of pleasing the 
unsophisticated eyes of Fanny. One of the recesses was 
deeper than the rest ; he fancied the brooch was there ; 
he stretched his hand into the recess ; and, as the room 
was partially darkened by the lower shutters from with- 
out wnich were still unclosed to prevent any attempted 


288 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 




escape of his captive, he had only the sense of touch to 
depend on ; not finding the brooch, he stretched on till he 
came to the extremity of the recess, and was suddenly 
sensible of a sharp pain ; the flesh seemed caught as in a 
trap ; he drew back his finger with sudden force and a 
half-suppressed exclamation, and he perceived the bottom 
or floor of the pigeon-hole recede, as if sliding back. 
His curiosity was aroused ; he again felt warily and 
cautiously, and discovered a very slight inequality and 
roughness at the extremity of the recess. He was aware 
instantly that there was some secret spring ; he pressed 
with some force on the spot, and he felt the board give 
way ; he pushed it back towards him, and it slid suddenly 
with a whirring noise, and left a cavity below exposed to ' 
his sight. He peered in, and drew forth a paper; he 
opened it at first carelessly, for he was still trying to 
listen to Fanny. His eye ran rapidly over a few pre- 
liminary lines till it rested on what follows : 

“ Marriage. The year 18 — 

“No. 83, page 21. 

“ Philip Beaufort, of this parish of A , and Cathe- 

rine Morton, of the parish of St. Botolph, Aldgate, 
London, were married in this church by banns, this 12th 
day of November, in the year one thousand eight hundred 
and ,* by me. 

“ Caleb Price, Vicar 

* This is according to the form customary at the date at which 
the copy was made. There has since been an alteration. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


289 


“ This marriage was solemnized between us, 

“ Philip Beaueort. 

“ Catherine Morton. 

‘‘In the presence of 

“ David Apreece. 

“William Smith. 

“ The above is a true copy taken from the registry of 

marriages, in A parish, this 19th day of March, 

18 — , by me, 

“Morgan Jones, Curate of C .” 

Lord Lilburne again cast his eye over the lines pre- 
fixed to this startling document, which, being those 
written at Calebs desire, by Mr. Jones to Philip Beau- 
fort, we need not here transcribe to the reader.* At 
that instant, Harriet descended the stairs, and came into 
the room ; she crept up on tiptoe to Lilburne, and whis- 
pered, — 

“ She is coming down, I think ; she does not know you 
are here.” 

“Very well — go-1” said Lord Lilburne?' And scarce 
had Harriet left the room, when a carriage drove furiously 
to the door, and Robert Beaufort rushed into the study. 

* See vol. i. page 37. 


II. — 25 


290 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


CHAPTER XI Y. 

“Gone, and none know it. 

****** 

How now ? — What news, what hopes and steps discovered ! " 
Beaumont and Fletcher : The Pilgrim. 

When Philip arrived at his lodgings in town it was 
very late, but he still found Liancourt waiting the chance 
of his arrival. The Frenchman was full of his own 
schemes and projects. He was a man of high repute and 
connexions ; negotiations for his recall to Paris had been 
entered into ; he was divided between a Quixotic loyalty 
and a rational prudence ; he brought his doubts to Vaude- 
mont. Occupied as he was with thoughts of so important 
and personal a nature, Philip could yet listen patiently to 
his friend, and weigh with him the pros and cons. And 
after having mutually agreed that loyalty and prudence 
would both be best consulted by waiting a little, to see if 
the nation, as the Carlists yet fondly trusted, would soon, 
after its first fever, offer once more the throne and the 
purple to the descendaiit of St. Louis, Liancourt, as he 
lighted his cigar to walk home, said, — “A thousand thanks 
to you, my dear friend : and how have you enjoyed your- 
self in your visit ? I am not surprised or jealous that 
Lilburne did not invite me, as I do not play at cards, and 

“I have said some sharp things to him.” 


NIGHT AND M*ORNING. 


291 


4< I fancy I shall have the same disqualifications for an- 
other invitation,” said Yaudemont, with a severe smile. 
“ I may have much to disclose to you in a few days. At 
present my news is still unripe. And have you seen any- 
thing of Lilburne ? he left us some days since. Is he in 
London ? ” 

“ Yes ; I was riding with our friend Henri, who wished 
to try a new horse off the stones, a little way into the 
country yesterday. We went through ***** an( j 
H . Pretty places, those. Do you know them ? ” 

‘‘Yes; I know H .” 

“And just at dusk, as we were spurring back to town, 
whom should I see walking on the path of the high-road 
but Lord Lilburne himself ! I could hardly believe my 
eyes. I stopped, and, after asking him about you, I could 
not help expressing my surprise to see him on foot at 
such a Diace. You know the man’s sneer. ‘A French- 
man so gallant as Monsieur de Liancourt,’ said he, ‘ need 
not be surprised at much greater miracles ; the iron moves 
to the magnet : I have a little adventure here. Pardon 
me, if I ask you to ride on.’ Of course I wished him 
good day ; and a little farther up the road I saw a dark 
plain chariot, no coronet, no arms, no footman — only the 
man on the box ; but the beauty of the horses assured me 
it must belong to Lilburne. Can you conceive such ab- 
surdity in a man of that age — and a very clever fellow, 
too ? Yet, how is it that one does not ridicule it in Lil- 
burne, as one would in another man between fifty and 
sixty ? ” 


292 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Because one does not ridicule, — one loathes — him.” 

“ No ; that’s not it. The fact is, that one can’t fancy 
Lilburne old. His manner is young — his eye is young 
I never saw any one with so much vitality. ‘ The bad 
heart and the good digestion’— the twin secrets for wear- 
ing well, eh 1 ” 

“ Where did you meet him — not near H ? ” 

“ Yes ; close by. Why ? Have you any adventure 
there, too ? Nay, forgive me ; it was but a jest. Good 
night 1 ” 

Vaudemont fell into an uneasy reverie ; he could not 
divine exactly why he should be alarmed ; but he was 

alarmed at Lilburne being in the neighborhood of H . 

It was the foot of the profane violating the sanctuary. 
An undefined thrill shot through him, as his mind coupled 
together the associations of Lilburne and Fanny ; but 
there was no ground for forebodings. Fanny did not 
stir out alone. An adventure, too — pooh ! Lord Lil- 
burne must be awaiting a willing and voluntary appoint- 
ment, most probably from some one of the fair but deco- 
rous frailties in London. Lord Lilburne’s more recent 
conquests were said to be among those of his own rank ; 
suburbs are useful for such assignations. Any other 
thought was too horrible to be contemplated. He glanced 
to the clock ; it was three in the morning. He would 
go to H early, even before he sought out Mr. Wil- 

liam Smith. With that resolution, and even his hardy 
frame worn out by the excitement of the day, he threw 
himself on his bed and fell asleep. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 293 

He did not wake till near nine ; and had just dressed, 
and hurried over his abstemious breakfast, when the ser- 
vant of the house came to tell him that an old woman, 
apparently in great agitation, wished to see him. His 
head was still full of witnesses and lawsuits ; and he was 
vaguely expecting some visitor connected with his pri- 
mary objects, when Sarah broke into the room. She 
cast a hurried, suspicious look round her, and then, throw- 
ing herself on her knees to him, “ Oh ! ” she cried, “ if 
you have taken that poor young thing away, God forgive 
you. Let her come back again. It shall be all hushed 
up. Don’t ruin her ! don’t ! that’s a dear, good gentle- 
man ! ” 

“ Speak plainly, woman, — what do you mean ? ” cried 
Philip, turning pale. 

A very few words sufficed for an explanation : Fanny’s 
disappearance the previous night ; the alarm of Sarah 
at her non-return ; the apathy of old Simon, who did not 
comprehend what had happened, and quietly went to bed ; 
the search Sarah had made during half the night ; the 
intelligence she had picked up, that the policeman, going 
his rounds, had heard a female shriek near the school ; 
but that all he could perceive through the mist was a 
carriage driving rapidly past him ; Sarah’s suspicions of 
Yaudemont confirmed in the morning, when, entering 
Fanny’s room, she perceived the poor girl’s unfinished 
letter with his own, the clue to his address that the latter 
gave her ; all this, ere she well understood what she her- 
self was talking about, — Yaudemont ’s alarm seized, and 
. 25 * 


294 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


the reflection of a moment construed : The carriage ; Lil 
burne seen lurking in the neighborhood the previous day j 
the former attempt ; — all flashed on him with an intoler- 
able glare. While Sarah was yet speaking, he rushed 
from the house, he flew to Lord Lilburne’s in Park-lane, 
he composed his manner, he inquired calmly. His lord- 
ship had slept from home ; he was, they believed, at Fern- 

side : Fernside ! H was on the direct way to that 

villa 1 Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since he heard 
the story ere he was on the road, with such speed as the 
promise of a guinea a mile could extract from the spurs 
of a young post-boy applied to the flanks of London 
post-horses. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“Ex humili magna ad fastigia rerum 
Extollit.” * — Juvenal. 

When Harriet had quitted Fanny, the waiting-woman, 
craftily wishing to lure her into Lilburne’s presence, had 
told her that the room below was empty ; and the captive’s 
mind naturally and instantly seized on the thought of 
escape. After a brief breathing pause, she crept noise- 
lessiy down the stairs, and gently opened the door ; and 
at the very instant she did so, Robert Beaufort entered 
from the other door ; she drew back in terror, when, what 

* Fortune raises meD from low estate to the very summit of 
prosperity. 


295 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 

I 

was her astonishment in hearing a name uttered that spell- 
bound her — the last name she could have expected to 
hear ; for Lilburne, the instant he saw Beaufort, pale, 
haggard, agitated, rush into the room, and bang the door 
after him, could only suppose that something of extra- 
ordinary moment had occurred with regard to the dreaded 
guest, and cried : “You come about Yaudemont 1 Some- 
thing has happened about Yaudemont 1 about Philip 1 
What is it? Calm yourself. ” 

Fanny, as the name was thus abruptly uttered, actually 
thrust her face through the door; but she again drew 
back, and, all her senses preternatu rally quickened at 
that name, while she held the door almost closed, listened 
with her whole soul in her ears. 

The faces of both the men were turned from her, and 
her partial entry had not been perceived. 

“Yes,” said Robert Beaufort, leaning his weight, as 
if ready to sink to the ground upon Lilburne’s shoulder, 

“ Yes ; Yaudemont, or Philip, for they are one, — yes, 

it is about that man I have come to consult you. Arthur 
has arrived.” 

“Well?” 

“ And Arthur has seen the wretch who visited us, and 
the rascal’s manner has so imposed on him, so convinced 
him that Philip is the heir to all our property, that he has 
come over — ill, ill — I fear” (added Beaufort, in a hollow 

voice,) 11 dying, to — to- ” 

“ To guard against their machinations ? ” 

« n0) no — to say that if such be the case, neithe? 


296 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


honor nor conscience will allow us to resist his rights. He 
is so obstinate in this matter ; his nerves so ill bear reason- 
ing and contradiction, that I know not what to do ” 

“Take breath — ; go on.” 

“ Well, it seems that this man foumd out Arthur almost 
as soon as my son arrived at Paris — that he has per- 
suaded Arthur that he has it in his power to prove the 
marriage — that he pretended to be very impatient for a 
decision — that Arthur, in order to gain time to see me, 
affected irresolution — took him to Boulogne, for the 
rascal does not dare to return to England — left him there ; 
and now comes back, my own son, as my worst euemy, to 
conspire against me for my property ! I could not have 
kept my temper if I had stayed. — But that ’s not all — 
that’s not the worst: Yaudemont left me suddenly in the 
morning on the receipt of a letter. In taking leave 
of Camilla he let fall hints which fill me with fear. — Well, 
I inquired his movements as I came along ; he had stopped 

at D , had been closeted for above an hour with a 

man whose name the landlord of the inn knew, for it was 
on his carpet-bag — the name was Barlow. You re- 
member the advertisements ! Good Heavens ! what is 
to be done ? I would not do anything unhandsome or 
dishonest. But there never was a marriage. I never 
will believe there was a marriage — never ! ” 

“ There was a marriage, Robert Beaufort,” said Lord 
Lilburne, almost enjoying the torture he was about to in- 
flict; “and I hold here a paper that Philip Yaudemont 
— for so we will yet call him — would give his right hand 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


291 


to clutch for a moment. I have but just found it in a 
secret cavity in that bureau. Robert, on this paper may 
depend the fate, the fortune, the prosperity, the greatness 
of Philip Yaudemont ; — or his poverty, his exile, his ruin. 
See ! ” 

Robert Beaufort glanced over the paper held out to 
him — dropped it on the floor — and staggered to a seat. 
Lilburne coolly replaced the document in the bureau, and, 
limping to his brother-in-law, said with a smile, — 

“ But the paper is in my possession — I will not destroy 
it. No ; I have no right to destroy it. Besides, it would 
be a crime ; but if I give it to you, you can do with h as 
yon please.” 

“ 0 Lilburne, spare me — spare me. I meant to be an 
honest man. I — I ” And Robert Beaufort sobbed. 

Lilburne looked at him in scornful surprise. 

“ Do not fear that I shall ever think worse of you ; 
and who else will know it ? Do not fear me. No ; — I, 
too, have reasons to hate and to fear this Philip Yaude- 
mont ; for Yaudemont shall be his name, and not Beau- 
fort, in spite of fifty such scraps of paper ! He has 
known a man — my worst foe — he has secrets of mine — of 
my past — perhaps of my present ; but I laugh at his 
knowledge while he is a wandering adventurer ; — I should 
tremble at that knowledge if he could thunder it out to 
the world as Philip Beaufort, of Beaufort Court ! There, 
I am candid with you. Now hear my plan. Prove to 
Arthur that his visitor is a convicted felon, by sending 
the officers of justice after him instantly — off with him 
25 * 


298 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


again to the Settlements. Defy a single witness — entrap 
Vaudemont back to France, and prove him (I think I 
will prove him such — I think so — with a little money and 
a little pains) — prove him the accomplice of William 
Gawtrey, a coiner and a murderer 1 Pshaw I take yon 
paper. Do with it as you will — keep it — give it to 
Arthur — let Philip Vaudemont have it, and Philip Yaude- 
mont will be rich and great, the happiest man between 
earth and paradise ! On the other hand, come and tell 
me that you have lost it, or that I never gave you such a 
paper, or that no such paper ever existed ; and Philip 
Yaudemont may live a pauper, and die, perhaps, a slave 
at the galleys ! Lose it, I say — lose it, — and advise with 
me upon the rest.” 

Horror-struck, bewildered, the weak man gazed upon 
the calm face of the Master-villa'n, as the scholar of the 
old fables might have gazed on the fiend who put before 
him worldly prosperity here and the loss of his soul here- 
after. He had never hitherto regarded Lilburne in his 
true light. He was appalled by the black heart that lay 
bare before him. 

“ I can’t destroy it — I can’t,” he faltered out ; “ and if 
I did, out of love for Arthur, — don’t talk of galleys, — of 
vengeance — I — I- ” 

“ The arrears of the rents you have enjoyed will send 
you to gaol for your life. No, no ; don't destroy the 
paper ! ” 

Beaufort rose with a desperate effort ; he moved to the 
bureau. Fanny’s heart was on her lips ; — of this long 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


29 « 


conference she had understood only the one broad point 
on which Lilburne had insisted with an emphasis that 
could have enlightened an infant ; and he looked on Beau- 
fort as an infant then ; — On that paper rested Philip - 
VaudemonVs fate — happiness if saved, ruin if destroyed , 
Philip — her Philip ! And Philip himself had said to 
her once — when had she ever forgotten his words? and 
now how those words flashed across her — Philip himself 
had said to her once, “ IJpon a scrap of paper, if I could 
but find it, may depend my whole fortune, my whole hap- 
piness, all that I care for in life.” — Robert Beaufort 
moved to the bureau — he seized the document — he looked 
over it again, hurriedly, and ere Lilburne, who by no 
means wished to have it destroyed in his own presence, 
was aware of his intention — he hastened with tottering 
steps to the hearth — averted his eyes, and cast it on the 
fire. At that instant, something white — he scarce knew 
what, it seemed to him as a spirit, as a ghost — darted by 
him, and snatched the paper, as yet uninjured, from the 
embers ! There was a pause for the hundredth part of a 
moment : — a gurgling sound of astonishment and horror 
from Beaufort — an exclamation from Lilburne — a laugh 
from Fanny, as, her eyes flashing light, with a proud 
dilation of stature, with the paper clasped tightly to her 
bosom, she turned her looks of triumph from one to the 
other. The two men were both too amazed, at the in- 
stant, for rapid measures. But Lilburne, recovering him- 
self first, hastened to her; she eluded his grasp — she 
made towards the door to the passage ; when Lilburne, 
seriously alarmed, seized her arm ; — 


300 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Foolish child! — give me that paper!” 

“ Never, but with my life ! ” And Fanny’s cry for help 
rang through the house. 

“Then ’’the speech died on his lips, for at that 

instant a rapid stride was heard without — a momentary 
scuffle — voices in altercation ; — the door gave way as if 
a battering-ram had forced it ; — not so much thrown for- 
ward, as actually hurled into the room, the body of Dyke- 
man fell heavily, like a dead man’s, at the very feet of 
Lord Lilburne — and Philip Yandemont stood in the 
doorway ! 

The grasp of Lilburne on Fanny’s arm relaxed, and 
the girl, with one bound, sprang to Philip’s breast. 
“ Here, here ! ” she cried ; “take it — take it ! ” and she 
thrust the paper into his hand. “ Don’t let them have it 
— read it — see it — never mind me ! ” But Philip, though 
his hand unconsciously closed on the precious document, 
did mind Fanny ; and in that moment her cause was the 
only one in the world to him. 

“Foul villain!” he said, as he strode to Lilburne, 
while Fanny still clung to his breast : “ Speak ! — speak ! 
— is — she — is she ? — man — man, speak ! — you know what 
I would say ! — She is the child of your own daughter — ■ 
the grandchild of that Mary whom you dishonored — the 
child of the woman whom William Gawtrey saved from 
pollution I Before he died, Gawtrey commended her to' 
my care ! — 0 God of Heaven ! — speak ! — I am not too 
late ! ” 

The manner, the words, the face of Philip left Lilburne 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


301 


terror-stricken with conviction. But the man’s crafty 
ability, debased as it was, triumphed even over remorse 
for the dread guilt meditated, — over gratitude for the 
dread guilt spared. He glanced at Beaufort — at Dyke- 
man, who now, slowly recovering, gazed at him with eyes 
that seemed starting from their sockets ; and lastly fixed 
his look on Philip himself. There were three witnesses 

— presence of mind was his great attribute! — ■ 

“ And if, Monsieur de Yaudemont, I knew, or, at least, 
had the firmest persuasion that Fanny was my grand- 
child, what then ? Why else should she be here ? — Pooh, 
sir! I am an old man.” 

Philip recoiled a step in wonder ; his plain sense was 
baffled by the calm lie. He looked down at Fanny, who, 
comprehending nothing of what was spoken, for all her 
faculties, even her very sense of sight and hearing, were 
absorbed in her impatient anxiety for him, cried out, — 

“No harm has come to Fanny — none : only frightened. 
Read ! — Read ! — Save that paper ! — You know what 
you once said about a mere scrap of paper ! Come away ! 

— Come ! ” 

He did now cast his eyes on the paper he held. That 
was an awful moment for Robert Beaufort — even for 
Lilburne ! — To snatch the fatal documents from that 
gripe ! They would as soon have snatched it from a 
tiger 1 He lifted his eyes — they rested on his mother’s 
picture ! Her lips smiled on him ! He turned to Beau- 
fort in a state of emotion too exulting, too blest for v .lgar 
vengence — for vulgar triumph — almost for word? 

II.— 26 


302 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Look yonder, Robert Beaufort — look!” and he 
pointed to the picture. “ Her name is spotless ! I stand 
again beneath a roof that was my father’s, — the Heir of 
Beaufort ! We shall meet before the justice of our country. 
For you, Lord Lilburne, I will believe you: it is tco 
horrible to doubt even your intentions. If wrong had 
chanced her, I would have rent you where you stand, limb 
from limb. And thank her ” — (for Lilburne recovered 
at this language the daring of his youth, before calcula- 
tion, indolence, and excess had dulled the edge of his 
nerves ; and, unawed by the height, and manhood, and 
strength of his menacer, stalked haughtily up to him) — 
“ and thank your relationship to her,” said Philip, sink- 
ing his voice into a whisper, “ that I did not brand you 
as a pilferer and a cheat ! Hush, knave ! ^ — hush, pupil 
of George Gawtrey ! — there are no duels for me but with 
men of honor ! ” 

Lilburne now turned white, and the big word stuck in 
his throat. In another instant, Fanny and her guardian 
had quitted the house. 

“ Dykeman,” said Lord Lilburne, after a long silence, 
“ I shall ask you another time how you came to admit 
that impertinent person. At present, go and order break- 
fast for Mr. Beaufort.” 

As soon as Dykeman, more astounded, perhaps, by his 
lord’s coolness, than even by the preceding circumstances, 
had left the study, Lilburne came up to Beaufort, — whc 
seemed absolutely stricken as if by palsy, — and touching 
him impatiently and rudely, said. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


303 


“ ’Sdeath, man ! — rouse yourself! There is not a 
moment to be lost ! I have already decided on what you 
are to do. This paper is not worth a rush, unless the 
curate who examined it will depose to that fact. He is a 
curate — a Welsh curate ; — you are yet Mr. Beaufort, a 
rich and a great man. The curate, properly managed, 
may depose to the contrary ; and then we will indict them 
all for forgery and conspiracy. At the worst, you can, 
no doubt, get the parson to forget all about it — to stay 

away. His address was on the certificate — C . Go 

yourself into Wales, without an instant’s delay. Then, 
having arranged with Mr. Jones, hurry back, cross to 
Boulogne, and buy this convict and his witness — yes, buy 
them ! That, now, is the only thing. Quick ! — quick ! 

quick ! Zounds, man ! if it were my affair, my estate, I 

would not care a pin for that fragment of paper : I should 
rather rejoice at it. I see how it could be turned against 
them ! Go ! ” 

“ No, no ; I am not equal to it ! Will you manage it ? 
will you ? Half my estate ! — all ! Take it : but save ” 

“ Tut ! ” interrupted Lord Lilburne, in great disdain. 
“ I am as rich as I want to be. Money does not bribe me. 
T manage this ! 77 Lord Lilburne ! I! .Why, if found 
out, it is subornation of witnesses. It is exposure — it is 
dishonor — it is ruin. What then? You should take 
the risk — for you must meet ruin if you do not. I can- 
not. I have nothing to gain ! ” 

“ I dare not ! — I dare not ! ” murmured Beaufort, quite 
spirit-broken. “ Subornation, dishonor, exposure ! — and 
I, so respectable — my character ! — and my son against 


804 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 

me, too ! — my son, in whom I lived again ? No, no : let 
them take all! — Let them take it! Ha! ha! let them 
take it! Good day to you.’’ 

“Where are you going?” 

“ I shall consult Mr. Blackwell, and I’ll let you know.” 

And Beaufort walked tremulously back to his carriage* 

“ Go to his lawyer ! ” growled Lilburne. “Yes, if his 
lawyer can help him to defraud men lawfully, he’ll defraud 
them fast enough. That will be the respectable way of 
doing it ! Um ! — This may be an ugly business for me 
— the paper found here — if the girl can depose to what 
she heard, and she must have heard something. — No, I 
think the laws of real property will hardly allow her 
evidence; and if they do — TJm ! — My granddaughter ! 
is it possible ! — And Gawtrey rescued her mother, my 
child, from her own mother’s vices ! I thought my liking 
to that girl different from any other I have ever felt : it 
was pure — it was / — it was pity — affection. And I 
must never see her again — must forget the whole thing ! 
And I am growing old — and I am childless — and alone ! ” 
He paused, almost with a groan : and then the expression 
of his face changing to rage, he cried out, — “ The man 
threatened me, and I was a coward ! What to do? — 
Nothing ! The defensive is my line I shall play no 
more. — I attack no one. Who will accuse Lord Lilburne ? 
Still, Robert is a fool. I must not leave him to himself. 
Ho ! there ! Dykeman ! — the carriage ! I shall go to 
London.” 

Fortunate, no doubt, it was for Philip, that Mr Bean- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


305 


fort was not Lord Lilburne. For all history teaches us — 
public and private history — conquerors — statesmen — 
sharp hypocrites, and brave designers — yes, they all teach 
us how mighty one man of great intellect and no scruple 
is against the justice of millions ! The One Man moves 
— the Mass is inert. Justice sits on a throne. Roguery 
never rests, — Activity is the lever of Archimedes. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

“ Quam multa injusta ac prava Hunt moribus.” * — Tull. 

. . . “Yolat ambiguis 
Mobilis alis Hora.”f — Seneca. 

Mr. Robert Beaufort sought Mr. Blackwell, and 
long, rambling, and disjointed was his narrative. Mr. 
Blackwell, after some consideration, proposed to set about 
doing the very things that Lilburne had proposed at once 
to do. But the lawyer expressed himself legally and 
covertly, so that it did not seem to the sober sense of 
Mr. Beaufort at all the same plan. He was not the least 
alarmed at what Mr. Blackwell proposed, though so 
shocked at what Lilburne dictated. Blackwell would go 
the next day into Wales — he would find out Mr. Jones— 
he would sound him ! Nothing was more common, with 
people of the nicest honor, than just to get a witness out 

* How many unjust and vicious actions are perpetrated under 
the name of morals ! 

■j- The hour flies moving with doubtful wings. 

26* u 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


bO 6 

of the way ! Done in election petitions, for instance, 
every day. 

“ True,” said Mr. Beaufort, much relieved. 

Then, after having done that, Mr. Blackwell would re- 
turn to town, and cross over to Boulogne to see this very 
impudent person whom Arthur (young men were so apt 
to be taken in !) had actually believed. He had no doubt 
he could settle it all. Robert Beaufort returned to 
Berkeley Square actually in spirits. 

There he found Lilburne, who, on reflection, seeing 
that Blackwell was at all events more up to the businesa 
than his brother, assented to the propriety of the arrange- 
ment. 

Mr. Blackwell accordingly did set off the next day. 
That next day, perhaps, made all the difference. Within 
two hours from his gaining the document so important, 
Philip, without any subtler exertion of intellect than the 
decision of a plain, bold sense, had already forestalled 
both the peer and the lawyer. He had sent down Mr. 
Barlow’s head clerk to his master in Wales with the docu- 
ment, and a short account of the manner in which it had 
been discovered. And fortunate, indeed, was it that the 
copy had been found ; for all the inquiries of Mr. Barlow 

at A had failed, and probably would have failed, 

without such a clue, in fastening upon any one probable 
person to have officiated as Caleb Price’s amanuensis. 
The sixteen hours’ start Mr. Barlow gained over Black- 
well enabled the former to see Mr. Jones — to show him 
his own handwriting — to get a written and witnessed at 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 30 '. 

testation from which the curate, however poor, and how- 
ever tempted, could never well have escaped (even had 
he been dishonest, which he was not) of his perfect re- 
collection of the fact of making an extract from the 
registry at Caleb’s desire, though he owned he had quite 
forgotten the names he extracted till they were again 
placed before him. Barlow took care to arouse Mr. 
Jones’s interest in the case — quitted Wales — hastened 
over to Boulogne — saw Captain Smith, and without 
bribes, without threats, but by plainly proving to that 
worthy person that he could not return to England nor 
see his brother without being immediately arrested ; that 
his brother’s evidence was already pledged on the side of 
truth ; and that by the acquisition of new testimony there 
could be no 'doubt that the suit would be successful — he 
diverted the captain from all disposition towards perfidy, 
convinced him on which side his interest lay, and saw him 
return to Paris, where very shortly afterwards he disap- 
peared for ever from this world, being forced into a duel, 
much against his will (with a Frenchman whom he had 
attempted to defraud), and shot through the lungs : — 
Thus verifying a favorite maxim of Lord Lilburne’s, viz. 
that it does not do, on the long run, for little men to play 
the Great Game ! 

On the same day that Blackwell returned, frustrated in 
his half-and-half attempts to corrupt Mr. Jones, and not 
having been able even to discover Mr. Smith, Mr, Robert 
Beaufort received notice of an Action for Ejectment to 
be brought by Philip Beaufort at the next Assizes. And, 


308 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


to add to his afflictions, Arthur, whom he had hitherto 
endeavored to amuse by a sort of ambiguous shilly-shally 
correspondence, became so alarmingly worse, that his 
mother brought him up to town for advice. Lord Lil- 
burne was, of course, sent for ; and on learning all, his 
counsel was prompt. 

“ I told you before that this man loves your daughter. 
See if you can effect a cqmpromise. The lawsuit will be 
ugly, and probably ruinous. He has a right to claim six 
years’ arrears — that is above £100,000. Make yourself 
his father-in-law, and me his uncle-in-law ; and, since we 
can’t kill the wasp, we may at least soften the venom of 
his sting.” 

Beaufort, still perplexed, irresolute, sought his son ; 
and, for the first time, spoke to him frankly — that is, 
frankly for Robert Beaufort ! He owned that the copy 
of the register had been found by Lilburne in a secret 
drawer. He made the best of the story Lilburne him- 
self furnished him with (adhering, of course, to the asser- 
tion uttered or insinuated to Philip) in regard to Fanny’s 
abduction and interposition ; he said nothing of his at- 
tempt to destroy the paper. Why should he ? By ad- 
mitting the copy in court — if so advised — he could get 
rid of Fanny’s evidence altogether ; even without such 
concession, her evidence might possibly be objected to or 
eluded. He confessed that he feared the witness who 
copied the register and the witness to the marriage were 
alive. And then he talked pathetically of his desire to 
do what was right, his dread of slander and misinterpre* 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 309 

tation. He said nothing of Sidney, and his belief that 
Sidney and Charles Spencer were the same ; because, if 
his daughter were to be the instrument for effecting a 
compromise, it was clear that her engagement with Spencer 
must be cancelled and concealed. And luckily Arthur’s 
illness and Camilla’s timidity, joined now to her father’s 
injunctions not to excite Arthur in his present state with 
any additional causes of anxiety, prevented the confidence 
that might otherwise have ensued between the brother 
and sister. And Camilla, indeed, had no heart for such 
a conference. How, when she looked on Arthur’s glassy 
eye, and listened to his hectic cough, could she talk to 
him of love and marriage ? As to the automaton, Mrs. 
Beaufort, Robert made sure of her discretion. 

Arthur listened attentively to his father’s communica- 
tion, and the result of that interview was the following 
letter from Arthur to his cousin : — 

“ I write to you without fear of misconstruction ; for I 
write to you unknown to all my family, and I am the only 
one of them who can have no personal interest in the 
struggle about to take place between my father and your- 
self. Before the law can decide between you, I shall be 
in my grave. I write this from the Bed of Death. 
Philip, I write this — /, who stood beside a death-bed 
more sacred to you than mine — I, who received your 
mother’s last sigh. And with that sigh there was a smile 
that lasted when the sigh was gone : for I promised to 
befriend her children. Heaven knows how anxiously I 
sought to fulfil that solemn vow 1 Feeble and sick my- 


310 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


self, I followed you and your brother with no aim, nc 
prayer, but this, — to embrace you and say, ‘Accept a 
new brother in me.’ I spare you the humiliation, for it 
is yours not mine, of recalling what passed between us 
when at last we met. Yet, I still sought to save, at least, 
Sidney, — more especially confided to my care by his 
dying mother. He mysteriously eluded our search ; but 
we had reason, by a letter received from some unknown 
hand, to believe him saved and provided for. Again I 
met you at Paris. I saw you were poor. Judging from 
your associate, I might with justice think you depraved. 
Mindful of your declaration never to accept bounty from 
a Beaufort, and remembering with natural resentment the 
outrage I had before received from you, I judged it vain 
to seek and remonstrate with you, but I did not judge it 
vain to aid. I sent you, anonymously, what at least 
would suffice, if absolute poverty had subjected you to 
evil courses, to rescue you from them if your heart were 
so disposed. Perhaps that sum, trifling as it was, may 
have smoothed your path and assisted your career. And 
why tell you all this now ? To dissuade from asserting 
rights you conceive to be just? — Heaven forbid! If 
justice is with you, so also is the duty due to your 
mother’s name. But simply for this : that in asserting 
such rights, you content yourself with justice, not revenge 

that in righting yourself, you do not wrong others. 

If the law should decide for you, the arrears you could 
demand would leave my father and sister beggars. Tip's 
may be law — it would not be justice; for my fathe* 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


311 


solemnly believed himself, and had every apparent proba- 
bility in his favor, the true heir of the wealth that devolved 
upon him. This is not all. There may be circumstances 
connected with the discovery of a certain document that, 
if authentic, and I do not presume to question it, may de- 
cide the contest so far as it rests on truth ; circumstances 
which. might seem to bear hard upon my father’s good 
name and faith. I do not know sufficiently of law to say 
how far these could be publicly argued, or if urged, ex- 
aggerated and tortured by an advocate’s calumnious in- 
genuity. But again I say, justice, and not revenge ! 
And with this I conclude, enclosing to you these lines, 
written in your own hand, and leaving you the arbiter 
of their value. “ Arthur Beaufort.” 

The lines enclosed were these, a second time placed 
before the reader : — 

“ I cannot guess who you are. They say that you call 
yourself a relation ; that must be some mistake. I knew 
not that my poor mother had relations so kind. But, 
whoever you be, you soothed her last hours — she died 
in your arms ; and if ever — years, long years, hence — 
we should chance to meet, and I can do anything to aid 
another, my blood, and my life, and my heart, and my 
soul, all are slaves to your will ! If you be really of her 

kindred, I commend to you my brother ; he is at 

with Mr. Morton. If you can serve him, my mother’s 
soul will watch over you as a guardian angel. As for 


312 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


me, ,1 ask no help from any one ; I go into the world, and 
will carve out my own way. So much do I shrink from 
the thought of charity from others, that I do not believe 
I could bless you as I do now, if your kindness to me did 
not close with the stone upon my mother’s grave. 

‘ “Philip.” 

This letter was sent to the only address of Monsieur de 
Yaudemont which the Beauforts knew, viz., his apart- 
ments in town, and he did not receive it the day it was 
sent. • 

Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort’s malady continued to gain 
ground rapidly. His father, absorbed in his own more 
selfish fears (though at the first sight of Arthur, overcome 
by the alteration of his appearance), had ceased to con- 
sider his illness fatal. In fact, his affection for Arthur 
was rather one of pride than love ; long absence had 
weakened the ties of early custom. He prized him as an 
heir rather than treasured him as a son. It almost 
seemed that, as the Heritage was in danger, so the Heir 
became less dear : this was only because he was less 
thought of. Poor Mrs. Beaufort, yet but partially ac- 
quainted with the terrors of her husband, still clung to 
hope for Arthur. Her affection for him brought out 
from the depths of her cold and insignificant character 
qualities that had never before been apparent. She 
watched — she nursed — she tended him. The fine lady 
was gone ; nothing but the mother was left behind. 

With a delicate constitution, and with an easy temper. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 313 

which yielded to the influence of companions inferior to 
himself, except in bodily vigor and more sturdy will, 
Arthur Beaufort had been ruined by prosperity His 
talents and acquirements, if not first-rate, at least far 
above mediocrity, had only served to refine his tastes, not 
to strengthen his mind. His amiable impulses, his charm- 
ing disposition, and sweet temper, had only served to 
make him the dupe of the parasites that feasted on the 
lavish heir. His heart, frittered away in the usual round 
of light intrigues and hollow pleasures, had become too 
sated and exhausted for the redeeming blessings of a 
deep and noble love. He had so lived for Pleasure that 
he had never known Happiness. His frame broken by 
excesses in which his better nature never took delight, 
he came home — to hear of ruin and to die ! 

It was. evening in the sick room. Arthur had risen 
from the bed to which, for some days, he had voluntarily 
taken, and was stretched on the sofa before the fire. 
Camilla was leaning over him, keeping in the shade, ‘that 
he might not see the tears which she could not suppress. 
His mother had been endeavoring to amuse him, as she 
would have amused herself, by reading aloud one of the 
light Novels of the Hour ; novels that paint the life of the 
higher classes as one gorgeous holiday. 

“ My dear mother,” said the patient, querulously, “ I 
have no interest in these false descriptions of the life I 
have led. I know that life’s worth. Ah 1 had I been 
trained to some employment, some profession ! had I 

II.— 27 


814 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

well — it is weak to repine. Mother, tell me, you hav6 
seen Mons. de Vaudemont: is he strong and healthy?” 

“ Yes ; too much so. He has not your elegance, dear 
Arthur.” 

“And do you admire him, Camilla? Has no other 
caught your heart or your fancy ? ” 

“My dear Arthur,” interrupted Mrs. Beaufort, “you 
forget that Camilla is scarcely out; and of course a 
young girl’s affections, if she’s well brought up, are regu- 
lated by the experience of her parents. It is time to take 
the medicine : it certainly agrees with you ; you have 
more color to-day, my dear, dear son.” 

While Mrs. Beaufort was pouring ont the medicine, the 
door gently opened, and Mr. Robert Beaufort appeared ; 
behind him there rose a taller and a statelier form, but 
one which seemed more bent, more humbled, more agitated. 
Beaufort advanced. Camilla looked up and turned pale. 
The visitor escaped from Mr. Beaufort’s grasp on his arm i 
he came forward, trembling, he fell on his knees beside 
Arthur, and seizing his band, bent over it in silence : but 
silence so stormy 1 silence more impressive than all words : 
his breast heaved, his whole frame shook. Arthur guessed 
at once whom he saw, and bent down gently as if to 
raise his visitor. 

“ Oh ! Arthur ! Arthur ! ” then cried Philip ; “ forgive 
me ! My mother’s comforter — my cousin — my brother ! 
Oh ! brother , forgive me ! ” 

And as he half rose, Arthur stretched out his arms, and 
Philip clasped him to his breast. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


3] 5 


It is in vain to describe the different feelings that agi- 
tated those who beheld ; the selfish congratulations of 
Robert, mingled with a better and purer feeling; the 
stupor of the mother ; the emotions that she herself could 
not unravel, which rooted Camilla to the spot. 

“You own me, then, — you own me!” cried Philip. 

“You accept the brotherhood that my mad passions 
once rejected ! And you, too — you, Camilla — you who 
once knelt by my side, uuder this very roof — do you re- 
member me now ? Oh, Arthur ! that letter — that letter ! 
— yes, indeed, that aid which I ascribed to any one — 
rather than to you — made the date of a fairer fortune. 
I may have owed to that aid the very fate that has pre- 
served me till now ; the very name which I have not dis- 
credited. No, no ; do not think you can ask me a favor ; 
you can but claim your due. Brother ! my dear brother ! ” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ Warwick. — Exceeding well! his cares are now all over.” 

Henry IV. 

The excitement of this interview soon overpowering 
Arthur, Philip, in quitting the room with Mr. Beaufort, 
asked a conference with that gentleman ; and they went 
into the very parlor from which the rich man had once 
threatened to expel the haggard suppliant. Philip glanced 
round the room, and the whole scene came again before 

him. After a pause, he thus began, — 

2u 


316 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“Mr. Beaufort, let the Past be forgotten. We may 
have need of mutual forgiveness, and I, who have so 
wronged your noble son, am willing to suppose that I 
misjudged you. I cannot, it is true, forego this lawsuit.’ 

Mr. Beaufort’s face fell. 

“ I have no right to do so. I am the trustee of my 
father’s honor and my mother’s name : I cannot forego 
this lawsuit. But when I once bowed myself to enter 
your house — then only with a hope, where now I have 
the certainty, of obtaining my heritage — it was with the 
resolve to bury in oblivion every sentiment that would 
transgress the most temperate justice. Now, -I will do 
more. If the law decide against me, we are as we were,; 
if with me, — listen : I will leave you the lands of Beau- 
fort, for your life and your son’s. I ask but for me and 
for mine such a deduction from your wealth as will enable 
me, should my brother be yet living, to provide for him ; 
and (if you approve the choice, which out of all earth I 
would desire to make) to give whatever belongs to more 
:«fined or graceful existence than I myself care for, — to 
her whom I could call my wife. Robert Beaufort, in this 
room I once asked you to restore to me the only being I 
then loved : I am now again your suppliant ; and this 
time you have it in your power to grant my prayer. Let 
Arthur be, in truth, my brother : give me, if I prove my- 
self, as I feel assured, entitled to hold the name my father 
bore, give me your daughter as my wife ; give me Camilla, 
and I will not envy you the lands I am willing for myself 
to resign ; and if they pass to my children, those childrec 
will be your daughter’s ! ” 


I 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


317 


The first impulse of Mr. Beaufort was to grasp the hand 
held out to him ; to pour forth an incoherent torrent of 
praise and protestation, of assurances that he could not 
hear of such generosity, that what was right was right, 
that he should be proud of such a son-in-law, and much 
mere to the same key. And in the midst of this, it 
suddenly occurred to Mr. Beaufort, that if Philip’s case 
were really as good as he said it was, he could not talk 
so coolly of resigning the property it would secure him for 
the term of a life (Mr. Beaufort thought of his own) so 
uncommonly good, to say nothing of Arthur’s. At tb? 
notion, he thought it best not to commit himself too far; 
drew in as artfully as he could, until he could consult Lord 
Lilburne and his lawyer ; and recollecting also that he had 
a great deal to manage with respect to Camilla and her 
prior attachment, he began to talk of his distress for Arthur, 
of the necessity of waiting a little before Camilla was spoken 
to, while so agitated about her brother, of the exceedingly 
strong case which his lawyer advised him he possessed — 
not but what he would rather rest the matter on justice 
than law — and that if the law should be with him, he 
would not the less (provided he did not force his daugh- 
ter’s inclinations, of which, indeed, he had no fear) be 
most happy to bestow her hand on his brother’s son 
with such a portion as would be most handsome to all 
parties. 

It often happens to us in this world, that when we come 
with our heart in our hands to some person or other, — 
when we pour out some generous burst of feeling so em 
27 * 


318 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


thusiastic and self-sacrificing, that a bystander would call 
us fool and Quixote ; — it often, 1 say, happens to us, to 
find our warm self suddenly thrown back upon our cold 
self; to discover that we are utterly uncomprohended, 
and that the swine who would have munched up the acorn 
does not know what to make of the pearl. That sudden 
ice which then freezes over us, that supreme disgust and 
despair almost of the whole world, which for the moment 
we confound with the one worldling — they who have 
felt, may reasonably ascribe to Philip. He listened to 
Mr. Beaufort in utter and contemptuous silence, and then 
replied only, — 

“ Sir, at all events this is a question for law to decide. 
If it decide as you think, it is for you to act ; if as L 
think, it is for me. Till then I will speak to you no more 
of your daughter, or my intentions. Meanwhile, all I ask 
is the liberty to visit your son. I would not be banished 
from his §ick room 1 ” 

“ My dear nephew ! ” cried Mr. Beaufort, again alarmed, 
“consider this house as your home.” 

Philip bowed and retreated to the door, followed ob- 
3 equiously by his uncle. 

It chanced that both Lord Lilburne and Mr. Blackwell 
were of the same mind as to the course advisable for Mr. 
Beaufort now to pursue. Lord Lilburne was not only 
anxious to exchange a hostile litigation for an amicable 
lawsuit, but he was really eager to put the seal of relation- 
ship upon any secret with regard to himself, that a man 
who might inherit 20,0Q0Z. a-year — a dead shot — and a 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


319 


bold, tongue — might think fit to disclose. This made 
him more earnest than he otherwise might have been in 
advice as to other people’s affairs. He spoke to Beaufort 
as a man of the world — to Blackwell as a lawyer. 

“ Pin the man down to his generosity,” said Lilburne, 
“before he gets the property. Possession makes a great 
change in a man’s value of money. After all, you can’t 
enjoy the property when you’re dead : he gives it next to 
Arthur, who is not married ; and if anything happen to 
Arthur, poor fellow, why in devolving on your daughter’s 
husband and children, it goes in the right line. Pin him 
down at once : get credit with the world for the most 
noble and disinterested conduct, by letting your counsel 
state that the instant you discovered the lost document, 
you wished to throw no obstacle in the way of proving 
the marriage, and that the only thing to consider is, if 
the marriage be proved ; if so, you will be the first to re- 
joice, &c. &c. You know all that sort of humbug as 
well as any man ! ” 

Mr. Blackwell suggested the same advice, though in 
different words — after taking the opinions of three 
eminent members of the bar ; those opinions, indeed, were 
not all alike — one was adverse to Mr. Robert Beaufort’s 
chance of success, one was doubtful of it, the third main- 
tained that he had nothing to fear from the action — except, 
possibly, the ill-natured construction of the world. Mr. 
Robert Beaufort disliked the idea of the world’s ill-nature, 
almost as much as he did that of losing his property. 
And when even this last and more encouraging authority, 


320 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


learning privately from Mr. Blackwell, that Arthur’s ill- 
ness was of a nature to terminate fatally, observed, “ that 
a compromise with a claimant, who was at all events Mr. 
Beaufort’s nephew, by which Mr. Beaufort could secure 
the enjoyment of the estates to himself for life, and to his 
son for life also, should not (whatever his probabilities 
of legal success) be hastily rejected — unless he had a 
peculiar affection for a very distant relation — who, fail- 
ing Mr. Beaufort’s male issue and Philip’s claim, would 
be heir-at-law, but whose rights would cease if Arthur 
liked to cut off the entail.” Mr. Beaufort at once decided. 
He had a personal dislike to that distant heir-at-law ; he 
had a strong desire to retain the esteem of the world ; he 
had an intimate conviction of the justice of Philip’s claim ; 
he had a remorseful recollection of his brother’s generous 
kindness to himself ; he preferred to have for his heir, in 
case of Arthur’s decease, a nephew who would marry his 
daughter, than a remote kinsman. And should, after all, 
the lawsuit fail to prove Philip’s right, he was not sorry 
to have the estate in his own power by Arthur’s act in 
cutting off the entail. Brief ; all these reasons decided 
him. He saw Philip — he spoke to Arthur — and all 
the preliminaries, as suggested above, were arranged be- 
tween the parties. The entail was cut off, and Arthur 
secretly prevailed upon his- father, to whom, for the 
present, the fee-simple thus belonged, to make a will, by 
which he bequeathed the estates to Philip, without refe 
rence to the question of his legitimacy. Mr. Beaufort 
felt his conscience greatly eased after this action — which, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


321 


too, lie could always retract if he pleased ; and henceforth 
the lawsuit became but a matter of form, so far as the 
property it involved was concerned. 

While these negotiations went on, Arthur continued 
gradually to decline. Philip was with him always. The 
sufferer took a strange liking to this long-dreaded rela- 
tion, this man of iron frame and thews. In Philip there 
was so much of life, that Arthur almost felt as if in his 
presence itself there was an antagonism to death. And 
Camilla saw thus her cousin, day by day, hour by hour, 
.n that sick chamber, lending himself, with the gentle 
:enderness of a woman, to soften the pang, to arouse the 
weariness, to cheer the dejection. Philip never spoke to 
uer of love : in such a scene, that had been impossible. 
She overcame in their mutual cares the embarrassment 
she had before felt in his presence ; whatever her other 
feelings, she could not, at least, but be grateful to one so 
tender to her brother. Three letters of Charles Spencer’s 
had been, in the afflictions of the house, only answered 
by a brief line. She now took the occasion of a momen- 
tary and delusive amelioration in Arthur’s disease to 
write to him more at length. She was carrying, as usual, 
the letter to her mother, when Mr. Beaufort met her, and 
took the letter from her hand. He looked embarrassed 
for a moment, and bade her follow him into his study. It 
was then that Camilla learned, for the first time, dis- 
tinctly, the claims and rights of her cousin ; then she 
learned also at what price tnose rights were to be en- 
forced with the least possible injury to her father. Mr 
27 * 


v 


322 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


Beaufort naturally put the case before her in the strongest 
point ot the dilemma. He was to be ruined — utterly 
ruined ; *a pauper, a beggar, if Camilla did not save him. 
The master of his fate demanded his daughter’s hand. 
Habitually subservient to even a whim of her parents, 
this intelligence, the entreaty, the command with which 
it was accompanied, overwhelmed her. She answered but 
by tears ; and Mr. Beaufort, assured of her submission, 
left her, to consider of the tone of the letter he himself 
should write to Mr. Spencer. He had sat down to this 
very task, when he was summoned to Arthur’s room. 
His son was suddenly taken worse : spasms that threatened 
immediate danger, convulsed and exhausted him ; and 
when tnese were allayed, he continued for three days so 
feeble that Mr. Beaufort, his eyes now thoroughly open 
to the loss that awaited him, had no thoughts even for 
worldly interests. 

On the night of the third day, Philip, Robert Beau- 
fort, his wile, his daughter, were grouped round the death- 
bed of Arthur. The sufferer had just wakened from 
sleep, and he motioned to Philip to raise him. Mr. 
Beaufort started, as by the dim light he saw his son in 
the arms of Catherine's! and another Chamber of Death 
seemed, shadow-like, to replace the one before him. 
Words, long since uttered, knelled in his ear — “There 
shall be a death-bed yet beside which you shall see the 
spectre of her, now so calm, rising for retribution from 
the grave !” His blood froze, his hair stood erect; he 
cast a hurried, shrinking glance round the twilight of the 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


323 


darkened room : and, with a feeble cry, covered his white 
face with his trembling hands ! But on Arthur's lips there 
was a serene smile ; he turned his eyes from Philip to 
Camilla, and murmured, “ She will repay you ! ” A pause, 
and the mother’s shriek rang through the room ! Robert 
Beaufort raised his face from his hands. His son was 
dead ! 


X 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

“ Jul . — And what reward do you propose ? 

It must be my love .” — The Double Marriage. 

While these events, dark, hurried, and stormy, had 
befallen the family of his betrothed, Sidney had continued 
his calm life by the banks of the lovely lake. After a 
Aw weeks, his confidence in Camilla’s fidelity overbore 
all his apprehensions and forebodings. Her letters, 
though constrained by the inspection to which they were 
submitted, gave him inexpressible consolation and delight. 
He began, however, early to fancy that there was a change 
in their tone. The letters seemed to shun the one subject 
to which all others were as nought ; they turned rather 
upon the guests assembled at Beaufort Court ; and why 
I know not,— for there was nothing in them to authorise 
jealousy — the brief words devoted to Monsieur de Yaude- 
mont filled him with uneasy and terrible suspicion. He 
gave vent to these feelings, as fully as he dared do, under 
the knowledge that his letter would be seen ; and Camilla 


32 It night and morning. 

never again even mentioned the name of Yaudemont. 
Then there was a long pause ; then her brother’s arrival 
and illness were announced ; then, at intervals, but a few 
hurried lines ; then a complete, long, dreadful silence ; 
and lastly, with a deep black border and a solemn black 
seal, came the following letter from Mr. Beaufort : 

“ My dear Sir, — I have the unutterable grief to an- 
nounce to you and your worthy uncle the irreparable loss 
I have sustained in the death of my only son. It is a 
month to-day since he departed this life. He died, sir, 
as a Christian should die — humbly, penitently — exagge- 
rating the few faults of his short life, but — (and here the 
writer’s hypocrisy, though so natural to him — was it , that 
he knew not that he was hypocritical ? — fairly gave way 
before the real and human anguish, for which there is no 
dictionary !) — but I cannot pursue this theme 1 

“ Slowly now awakening to the duties yet left me to 
discharge, I cannot but be sensible of the material differ- 
ence in the prospects of my remaining child. Miss Beau- 
fort is now the heiress to an ancient name and a large 
fortune. She subscribes with me to the necessity of con- 
sulting those new considerations which so melancholy an 
event forces upon her mind. The little fancy — or liking 
— (the acquaintance was too short for more) that might 
naturally spring up between two amiable young persons 
thrown together in the country, must be banished from 
our thoughts. As a friend, I shall be always happy to 
hear of your welfare'; and should you ever think of a 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


325 


profession in which 1 can serve you, you may command 
my utmost interest and exertions. I know, my young 
friend, what you will feel at first, and how disposed you 
will be to call me mercenary and selfish. Heaven knows 
if that be really my character ! But at your age, im- 
pressions are easily effaced ; and any experienced friend 
of the world will assure you, that, in the altered circum- 
stances of the case, I have no option. All intercourse 
and correspondence, of course, cease with this letter, — 
until, at least, we may all meet, with no sentiments but 
those of friendship and esteem. I desire my compliments 
to youf worthy uncle, in which Mrs. and Miss Beaufort 
join ; and I am sure you will be happy to hear that my 
wife and daughter, though still in great affliction, have 
suffered less in health than I could have ventured to 
anticipate. 

“Believe me, dear Sir, 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Robert Beaufort. 

“ To C. Spencer, Esq., Jun.” 

When Sidney received this letter, he was with Mr. 
Spencer, and the latter read it over the young man’s 
shoulder, on which , he leant affectionately. When they 
came to the concluding words, Sidney turned round with 
a vacant look and a hollow smile. “ You see, sir,” he 
said, “ you see ” 

“ My boy — my son — you bear this as you ought Con- 
tempt will soon efface ” 

II.— 28 


326 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


Sidney started to his feet, and his whole countenance 
was changed. 

“ Contempt ! — yes, for him! But for her — she knows 
it not — she is no party to this — I cannot believe it — I 

will not ! I — I ” and he rushed out of the room. 

lie was absent till nightfall, and w r hen he returned, he 
endeavored to appear calm — but it was in vain. 

The next day brought him ,a letter from Camilla, writ- 
ten unknown to her parents, — short, it is true (confirming 
the sentence of separation contained in her father’s), and 
imploring him not to reply to it, — but still so full of 
gentle and of sorrowful feeling, so evidently worded in 
the wish to soften the anguish she inflicted, that it did 
more than soothe — it even administered hope. 

Now, when Mr. Robert Beaufort had recovered the 
ordinary tone of his mind, sufficiently to indite the letter 
Sidney had just read, he had become fully sensible of the 
necessity of concluding the marriage between Philip and 
Camilla, before the publicity of the lawsuit. The action 
for the ejectment could not take place before the ensuing 
March or April. He would waive the ordinary etiquette 
of time and mourning to arrange all before. Indeed he 
lived in hourly fear lest Philip should discover that he 
had a rival* in his brother, and break off the marriage, 
with its contingent advantages. The first announcement 
of such a suit in the newspapers might reach the Spencers ; 
and if the young man were, as he doubted not, Sidney 
Beaufort, would necessarily bring him forward, and ensure 
the dreaded explanation. Thus apprehensive and ever 


NIGHT AND MORNING, 


327 


scheming, Robert Beaufort spoke to Philip so much, and 
with such apparent feeling, of his wish to gratify, at the 
earliest possible period, the last wish of his son, m the 
union now arranged — he spoke, with such seeming con- 
sideration and good sense, of the avoidance of all scandal 
and misinterpretation in the suit itself, which suit a pre- 
vious marriage between the claimant and his daughter 
would show at once to be of so amicable a nature, — that 
Philip, ardently in love as he was, could not but assent 
to any hastening of his expected happiness compatible 
with decorum. As to any previous publicity by way of 
newspaper comment, he agreed with Mr. Beaufort in de- 
precating it. But then came the question, What name 
was he to bear in the interval ? 

“As to that,” said Philip, somewhat proudly, “ when, 
after my mother’s suit in her own behalf, I persuaded her 
not to bear the name of Beaufort, though her due — and 
for my own part, I prized her own modest name, which 
under such dark appearances was in reality spotless — as 
much as the loftier one which you bear and my father 
bore ; — so, I shall not resume the name the law denies 
me till the law restores it to me. Law alone can efface 
the wrong which law has done me.” 

Mr. Beaufort was pleased with this reasoning (errone- 
ous though it was), and he now hoped that all would be 
safely arranged. 

That a girl so situated as Camilla, and of a character 
not energetic or profound, but submissive, dutiful, and 
timid, should yield to the arguments of her father, the 


328 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


desire of her dying brother — that she should not dare to 
refuse to become the instrument of peace to a divided 
family, the saving sacrifice to her father’s endangered 
fortunes — that, in fine, when, nearly a month after Arthur’s 
death, her father, leading her into the room where Philip 
waited her footstep with a beating heart, placed her hand 
in his — and Philip, falling on his knees, said, “ May I 
hope to retain this hand for life ? ” — she should falter out 
such words as he might construe into not reluctant ac- 
quiescence ; that all this should happen is so natural that 
the reader is already prepared for it. But still she thought 
with bitter and remorseful feelings of him thus deliberately 
and faithlessly renounced. She felt how deeply he had 
loved her — she knew how fearful would be his grief. She 
looked sad and thoughtful ; but her brother’s death was 
sufficient in Philip’s eyes to account for that. The praises 
and gratitude of her father, to whom she suddenly seemed 
to become an object of even greater pride and affection 
than ever Arthur had been — the comfort of a generous 
heart, that takes pleasure in the very sacrifice it makes — 
the acquittal of her conscience as to the motives of her 
conduct — began, however, to produce their effect. Nor, 
as she had lately seen more of Philip, could she be in- 
sensible of his attachment — of his many noble qualities 
. — of the pride which most women might have felt in his 
addresses, when his rank was once made clear ; and as 
she had ever been of a character more regulated by duty 
than passion, so one who could have seen what was pass- 
ing in her mind would have had little fear for Philip’s 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 329 

future happiness in her keeping — little fear but that, 
when once married to him, her affections would have 
gone along with her duties ; and that if tbe first love 
were yet recalled, it would be with a sigh due rather to 
some romantic recollection than some continued regret. 
Few of either sex are ever united to their first love ; yet 
married people jog on, and call each other “my dear” 
and “ my darling” all the same ! It might be, it is true, 
that Philip would be scarcely loved with the intenseness 
with which he loved ; but if Camilla’s feelings were 
capable of corresponding to the ardent and impassioned 
ones of that strong and vehement nature — such feelings 
were not yet developed in her : — The heart of the woman 
might still be half concealed in the veil of the virgin inno- 
cence. Philip himself was satisfied — he believed that he 
was beloved ; for it is the property of love, in a large 
and noble heart, to reflect itself, and to see its own image 
in the eyes on which it looks. As the Poet gives ideal 
beauty and excellence to some ordinary child of Eve, 
worshipping less the being that is than the being he 
imagines and conceives — so Love, which makes us all 
poets for awhile, throws its own divine light over a heart 
perhaps really cold, and becomes dazzled into the joy of 
a false belief by the very lustre with which it surrounds 
its object. 

The more, however, Camilla saw of Philip, the more 
(gradually overcoming her former mysterious and super- 
stitious awe of him) she grew familiarised to his peculiar 
cast of character and thought ; so the more she began to 
28 * 


830 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


distrust her father’s assertion, that he had insisted on her 
hand as a price — a bargain — an equivalent for the sacri- 
fice of a dire revenge. And with this thought came an- 
other. Was she worthy of this man ? — was she not de- 
ceiving him ? ought she not to say, at least, that she had 
known a previous attachment, however determined she 
might be to subdue ft ? Often the desire for this just and 
honorable confession trembled on her lips, and as often 
was it checked by some chance circumstance or some 
maiden fear. Despite their connexion, there was not yet 
between them that delicious intimacy which ought to ac- 
company the affiance of two hearts and souls. The gloom 
of the house ; the restraint on the very language of love 
imposed by a death so recent, and so deplored, accounted 
in much for this reserve. And for the rest, Robert Beau- 
fort prudently left them very few and very brief oppor- 
tunities to be alone. 

In the mean time, Philip (now persuaded that the Beau- 
forts were ignorant of his brother’s fate) had set Mr. 
Barlow’s activity in search of Sidney ; and his painful 
anxiety to discover one so dear and so mysteriously lost, 
was the only cause of uneasiness apparent in the brighten- 
ing Future. While these researches, hitherto fruitless, 
were being made, it so happened, as London began now 
to refill, and gossip began now to revive, that a report 
got abroad, no one knew how (probably, from the ser- 
vants), that Monsieur de Yaudemont, a distinguished 
French officer, was shortly to lead the daughter and sole 
heiress of Robert Beaufort, Esq., M.P., to the hymeneal 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


381 


altar ; and that report very quickly found its way into the 
London papers : from the London papers it spread to the 
Provincial — it reached the eyes of Sidney in his now 
gloomy and despairing solitude. The day that he read 
it, he disappeared. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ri Jul Good lady, love him! 

You have a noble and an honest gentleman. 

I ever found him so. 

Love him no less than I have done, and serve him, 

And Heaven shall bless you — you shall bless my ashes.” 

Beaumont and Fletcher: The Double Marriage. 

We have been too long absent from Fanny : it is time 
to return to her. The delight she experienced when 
Philip made her understand all the benefits, the bless- 
ings, that her courage, nay, her intellect, had bestowed 
upon him, the blushing ecstacy with which she heard (as 
they returned to H , the eventful morning of her de- 

liverance, side by side, her hand clasped in his, and often 
pressed to his grateful lips) his praises, his thanks, his 
fear for her safety, his joy at regaining her — all this 
amounted to a bliss, which, till then, she could not have 
conceived that life was capable of bestowing. And when 

he left her at H , to hurry to his lawyer’s with the 

recovered document, it was but for an hour. He returned 
and d:U not quit her for several days. And in that time 

he became sensible of her astonishing, and, to him, il 
2v 


332 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


seemed miraculous, improvement in all that renders Mind 
the equal to Mind ; miraculous, for he guessed not the 
Influence that makes miracles its commonplace. And 
now he listened attentively to her when she conversed ; 
he read with her (though reading was never much in hi« 
vocation), his unfastidious ear was charmed with he: 
voice, when it sang those simple songs ; and his manner 
(impressed alike by gratitude for the signal service ren- 
dered to him, and by the discovery that Fanny was no 
longer a child, whether in mind or years), though not less 
gentle than before, was less familiar, less superior, more 
respectful, and more earnest. It was a change which 
raised her in her own self-esteem. Ah, those were rosy 
days for Fanny I 

A less sagacious judge of character than Lilburne 
would have formed doubts perhaps of the nature of 
Philip’s interest in Fanny. But he comprehended at 
once the fraternal interest which a man like Philip might 
well take in a creature like Fanny, if commended to his 
care by a protector whose doom was so awful as that 
which had engulfed the life of William Gawtrey. Lil- 
burne had some thoughts at first of claiming her, but as 
he had no power to compel her residence with him, he did 
not wish, on consideration, to come again in contact with 
Philip upon ground so full of humbling recollections as 
that still overshadowed by the images of Gawtrey and 
Mary. He contented himself with writing an artful 
letter to Simon, stating that from Fanny’s residence with 
Mr. Gawtrey, and from her likeness to her mother, whom 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


333 


he had only seen as a child, he had conjectured the rela- 
tionship she bore to himself ; and having obtained other 
evidence of that fact (he did not say what or where), he 
had not scrupled to remove her to his roof, meaning to 
explain all to "Mr. Simon Gawtrey the next day. This 
letter was accompanied by one from a lawyer, informing 
Simon Gawtrey that Lord Lilburne would pay 200Z. 
a-year, in quarterly payments, to his order ; and that he 
was requested to add, that when the young lady he had 
so benevolently reared came of age, or married, an ade- 
quate provision would be made for her. Simon’s mind 
blazed up at this last intelligence, when read to him, 
though he neither comprehended nor sought to know 
why Lord Lilburne should be so generous, or what that 
noble person’s letter to himself was intended to convey. 
For two days, he seemed restored to vigorous sense ; but 
when he had once clutched the first payment made in 
advance, the touch of the money seemed to numb him 
back to his lethargy ; the excitement of desire died in the 
dull sense of possession. 

And just at that time Fanny’s happiness came to a 
close. Philip received Arthur Beaufort’s letter; and 
now ensued long and frequent absences ; and on his re- 
turn, for about an hour or so at a time, he spoke of 
sorrow and death ; and the books were closed and the 
songs silenced. All fear for Fanny’s safety was, of 
course, over; all necessity for her work; their little 
establishment was increased. She never stirred out with- 
out Sarah ; yet she would rather that there had been some 


334 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


danger on her account for him to guard against, or some 
trial that his smile might soothe. His prolonged absences 
began to prey upon her — the books ceased to interest — 
no study filled up the dreary gap — her step grew list- 
less — her cheek pale — she was sensible at last that his 
presence had become necessary to her very life. One 
day, he came to the house earlier than usual, and with a 
much happier and serener expression of countenance than 
he had worn of late. 

Simon was dozing iu his chair, with his old dog, now 
scarce vigorous enough to bark, curled up at his feet. 
Neither man nor dog was more as a witness to what was 
spoken than the leathern chair, or the hearth-rug on 
which they severally reposed. 

There was something which, in actual life, greatly con- 
tributed to the interest of Fanny’s strange lot, but which, 
in narration, I feel I cannot make sufficiently clear to the 
reader. And this was her connexion and residence with 
that old man. Her character forming, as his was com- 
pletely gone ; here, the blank becoming filled — there, the 
page fading to a blank. It was the utter, total Death- 
liness-in-Life of Simon, that, while so impressive to see, 
renders it impossible to bring him before the reader, in 
his full force of contrast to the young Psyche. He 
seldom spoke — often, not from morning till night ; he 
now seldom stirred. It is in vain to describe the inde- 
scribable : let the reader draw the picture for himself. 
And whenever (as I sometimes think he will, after he has 
closed this book) he conjures up the idea he attaches to 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


335 


the name of its heroine, let him s.ee before her, as she 
glides through the humble room — as she listens to the 
voice of him she loves — as she sits musing by the window, 
with the church-spire just visible — as day by day the 
soul brightens and expands within her — still let the 
reader see within the same walls, grey-haired, blind, dull 
to all feeling, frozen to all life, that stony image of Time 
and Death ! Perhaps then he may understand why they 
who heheld the real and the living Fanny blooming under 
that chill and mass of shadow, felt that her grace, her 
simplicity, her charming beauty, were raised by the con- 
trast, till they grew associated with thoughts and images, 
mysterious and profound, belonging not more to the 
lovely than to the sublime. 

So there sat the old man ; and Philip, though aware 
of his presence, speaking as if he were alone with Fanny, 
after touching on more casual topics, thus addressed 
her : — 

“ My true and my dear friend, it is to you that I shall 
owe, not only my rights and fortune, but the vindication 
of my mother’s memory. You have not only placed 
flowers upon that grave-stone, but it is owing to you, 
under Providence, that it will be inscribed at last with 
the Name which refutes all calumny. Young and innocent 
as you now are, my gentle and beloved benefactress, you 
cannot as yet know what a blessing it will be to me to 
engrave that name upon that simple stone. Hereafter, 
when you yourself are a wife, a mother, you will compre- 
hend the service you have rendered to the living and the 
dead ! ” 


336 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


He stopped — struggling with the rush of emotions 
that overflowed his heart. Alas, the Dead ! what 
service can we render to them ? — what availed it now ? 
either to the dust below, or to the immortality above, 
that the fools and knaves of this world should mention 
the Catherine whose life was gone, whose ears were deaf, 
with more or less respect? There is in calumny that 
poison that, even when the character throws off the 
slander, the heart remains diseased beneath the effect. 
They say that truth comes sooner or later ; but it seldom 
comes before the soul, passing from agony to contempt, 
has grown callous to men’s judgments. Calumniate a 
human being in youth — adulate that being in age; — 
what has been the interval ? Will the adulation atone 
either for the torture, or the hardness which the torture 
leaves at last ? And if, as in Catherine’s case, (a case, 
how common 1) the truth come too late — if the tomb is 
closed — if the heart you have wrung can be wrung no 
more — why the truth is as valueless as the epitaph on a 
forgotten Name ! Some such conviction of the hollow- 
ness of his own words, when he spoke of service to the 
dead, smote upon Philip’s heart, and stopped the flow of 
his words. 

Fanny, conscious only of his praise, his thanks, and 
the tender affection of his voice, stood still silent — her 
eyes downcast, her breast heaving. 

Philip resumed, — 

“And now, Fanny, my honored sister, I would thank 
you for more, were it possible, even than this. I shall 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


337 


awe to you not only name and fortune, but happiness. 
It is from the rights to which you have assisted me, and 
which will shortly be made clear, that I am enabled to 
demand a hand I have long coveted — the hand of one 
as dear to me as you are. In a word, the time has, this 
day, been fixed, when I shall have a home to offer to you 
and to this old man — when I can present to you a sister 
who will prize you as I do : for I love you so dearly — I 
owe you so much — that even that home would lose half 
its smiles if you were not there. Do you understand me, 
Fanny ? The sister I speak of will be my wife ! ” 

The poor girl who heard this speech of most cruel 
tenderness, did not fall, or faint, or evince any outward 
emotion, except in a deadly paleness. She seemed like 
one turned to stone. Her very breath forsook her for 
some moments, and then came back with a long, deep 
sigh. She laid her hand lightly upon his arm, and said 
calmly, — 

“Yes — I understand. We once saw a wedding. 
You are to be married — I shall see yours!” 

“You shall ; and, later, perhaps, I may see your owu. 
I have a brother. Ah ! if I could but find him— younger 
than I am — beautiful almost as you ! ” 

“You will be happy,” said Fanny, still calmly. 

" I have long placed my hopes of happiness in such an 
union 1 Stay, where are you going ? ” 

“ To pray for you,” said Fanny, with a smile, in which 
there was something of the old vacancy; and she walked 
gently from the room. Philip followed her with moistened 
IT —29 


w 


338 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


eyes. Her manner might have deceived one more vain. 
He soon after quitted the house, and returned to town. 

Three hours after, Sarah found Fanny stretched on the 
floor of her own room — so still — so white — that, for 
some moments, the old woman thought life was gone. She 
recovered, however, by degrees ; and, after putting her 
hands to her eyes, and muttering some moments, seemed 
much as usual, except that she was more silent, and that 
her lips remained colorless, and her hands cold like stone. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Vec. — Ye see what follows. 

Duke. — 0, gentle sir ! this shape again ! ” — The Chances 

That evening Sidney Beaufort arrived in London. It 
is the nature of solitude to make the passions calm on the 
surface — agitated in the deeps. Sidney had placed his 
whole existence in one object. When the letter arrived 
that told him to hope no more, he was at first rather 
sensible of the terrible and dismal blank — the “void 
abyss” — to which all his future was suddenly changed, 
than roused to vehement and turbulent emotion. But 
Camilla’s letter had, as we have seen, raised his courage 
and auimated his heart. To the idea of her faith he still 
clung with the instinct of hope in the midst of despair. 
The tidings that she was absolutely betrothed to another, 
and in so short a time since her rejection of him, let loose 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


339 


from all restraint his darker and more tempestuous pas- 
sions. In a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he 
hurried to London — to seek her — to see her; with what 
intent — what hope, if hope there were — he himself could 
scarcely tell. But what man who has loved with fervor 
and trust, will be contented to receive the sentence of 
eternal separation except from the very lips of the one 
thus worshipped and thus forsworn ? 

The day had been intensely cold. Towards evening 
the snow fell fast and heavily. Sidney, had not, since a 
child, been before in London ; and the immense City, 
covered with a wintry and icy mist, through which the 
hurrying passengers and the slow-moving vehicles passed, 
spectre-like, along the dismal and slippery streets — 
opened to the stranger no hospitable arms. He knew 
not a step of the way — he was pushed to and fro — his 
scarce intelligible questions impatiently answered — the 
snow covered him — the frost pierced to his veins. At 
length a man, more kindly than the rest, seeing that he 
was a stranger to London, procured him a hackney-coach, 
and directed the driver to the distant quarter of Berkeley 
Square, Iffle snow balled under the hoofs of the horses 
— the groaning vehicle proceeded at the pace of a hearse 
At length, and after a period of such suspense, and such 
emotion, as Sidney never in after-life could recall without 
a shudder, the coach stopped — the benumbed driver 
heavily descended — the sound of the knocker knelled 
loud through the muffled air — and the light from Mr. 
Beaufort’s hall glared full upon the dizzy eyes of the 


340 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


visitor. He pushed aside the porter, and sprang into the 
hall. Luckily, one of the footmen who had attended 
Mrs. Beaufort to the lakes recognised him; and, iu 
answer to his breathless inquiry, said, — 

“ Why, indeed, Mr. Spencer, Miss Beaufort is at home 
— up stairs in the drawing-room, with master and mis- 
tress, and Monsieur de Yaudemont; but 

Sidney waited no more. He bounded up the stairs — 
he opened the first door that presented itself to him, and 
burst, unannounced and unlooked-for, upon the eyes of 
the group seated within. He saw not the terrified start 
of Mr. Robert Beaufort — he heeded notth?faint, nervous 
exclamation of the mother — he caught not the dark and 
wondering glance of the stranger seated beside 0 unilla — 
he saw but Camilla herself, and in a moment he was at 
her feet. 

“ Camilla, I am here ! — I, who love you so — I, who 
have nothing in the world but you ! I am here — to learn 
from you, and you alone, if I am indeed abandoned — if 
you are indeed to be another’s ! ” 

He had dashed his hat from his brow as he sprang 
forward ; his long fair hair, damp with the snows, fell dis- 
ordered over his forehead ; his eyes were fixed, as for life 
and death, upon the pale face and trembling lips of 
Camilla. Robert Beaufort, in great alarm, and well 
aware of the fierce temper of Philip, anticipative of some 
rash and violent impulse, turned his glance upon his 
destined son-in-law. But there was no angry pride in 
the countenance he there beheld. Philip had risen, but 


night and morning. 


34J 


his frame was bent — his knees knocked together — his 
lips were parted — his eyes were staring full upon the 
face of the kneeling man. 

Suddenly Camilla, sharing her father’s fear, herself half 
rose, and with an unconcious pathos, stretched one hand, 
as if to shelter, over Sidney’s head, and looked to Philip 
Sidney’s eyes followed hers. He sprang to his feet. 

What, then, it is true ! And this is the man for whom 
I am abandoned ! But unless you — you , with your own 
lips, tell me that you love me no more — that you love 
another — I will not yield you with my life.” 

He stalked sternly and impetuously up to Philip, who 
recoiled as his rival advanced. The characters of the two 
men seemed suddenly changed. The timid dreamer 
seemed dilated into the fearless soldier. The soldier 
seemed shrinking — quailing— into nameless terror. Sidney 
grasped that strong arm, as Philip still retreated, with 
his slight and delicate fingers, grasped with violence and 
menace ; and frowning into the face from which the swar- 
thy blood was scared away, said, in a hollow whisper, 

“ Do you hear me ? Do you comprehend me ? I say, 
that she shall not be forced into a marriage at which I 
yet believe her heart rebels. My claim is holier than 
yours, Renounce her, or win her but with my blood.” 

Philip did not apparently hear the wbrds thus addressed 
to him. His whole senses seemed absorbed in the one 
sense of sight. He continued to gaze upon the speaker, 
till his eye dropped on the hand that yet griped his arm 
And as he thus looked, he uttered an inarticulate cry 
29 * 


842 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


He caught the huid in his own, and pointed to a ring on 
the finger, but remained speechless. Mr. Beaufort ap- 
proached, and began some stammered words of soothing 
to Sidney ; but Philip motioned him to be silent j and at 
last, as if by a violent effort, gasped forth, not to Sidney, 
but to Beaufort, 

“His name? — his name?” 

“It is Mr. Spencer — Mr. Charles Spencer,” cried 

Beaufort. “ Listen to me, I will explain all — I ” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” cried Philip ; and turning to Sidney, 
he put his hand on his shoulder, and looking him full in 
the face, said, 

“Have you not known another name? Are you not 
— yes, it is so — it is — it is! Follow me — follow I” 
And still retaining his grasp, and leading Sidney, who 
was now subdued, awed, and a prey to new and wild 
suspicions, he moved on gently, stride by stride — his 
eyes fixed on that fair face — his lips muttering — till the 
closing door shut both forms from the eyes of the three 
there left. 

It was the adjoining room into which Philip led his 
rival. It was lit but by a small reading lamp, and the 
bright, steady blaze of the fire ; and by this light they 
both continued to gaze on each other, as if spell-bound, 
in complete silence. At last Philip, by an irresistible 
impulse, fell upon Sidney’s bosom, and clasping him with 
convulsive energy, gasped out, 

“ Sidney ! — Sidney ! — my Mother’s son!” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Sidney, struggling from the em- 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


343 


brace, and at last freeing himself : “it is you, then ! — 
you, my own brother 1 You, who have been hitherto the 
thorn in my path, the cloud in my fate ! you, who are 
now come to make me a wretch for life ! I love that 
woman, and you tear her from me ! You, who subjected 
my infancy to hardship, and, but for Providence, might 
have degraded my youth, by your example, into shame 
and guilt ! ” 

“ Forbear ! — forbear ! ” cried Philip, with a voice so 
shrill in its agony, that it smote the hearts of those in 
the adjoining chamber like the shriek of some despairing 
soul. They looked at each other, but not one hatTthe 
courage to break upon the interview. 

Sidney himself was appalled by the sound. He threw 
himself on a seat, and, overcome by passions so new to 
him, by excitement so strange, hid his face, and sobbed 
as a child. 

Philip walked rapidly to and fro the room for some 
moments ; at length he paused opposite to Sidney, and 
said, with the deep calmness of a wronged and goaded 
spirit, 

“ Sidney Beaufort, hear me ! When my mother died, 
she confided you to my care, my love, and my protection. 
In the last lines that her hand traced, she bade me think 
less of myself than of you ; to be to you as a father as 
well as brother. The hour that I read that letter I fell 
on my knees, and vowed that I would fulfil that injunc- 
tion — that 1 would sacrifice my very self, if I could give 
fortune or happiness to you. And this not for your sake 


344 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


alone, Sidney; no! but as my mother — our wronged, 

our belied, our broken-hearted mother ! 0 Sidney, 

Sidney! have you no tears for her, too ? ” He passed 
his hand over his own eyes for a moment, and resumed : 
— “ But as our mother, in that last letter, said to me, 

1 let my love pass into your breast for him,’ so, Sidney, 
so, in all that I Could do for you, I fancied that my 
mother’s smile looked down upon me, and that in serving 
you it was my mother whom I obeyed. Perhaps, here- 
after, Sidney, when we talk over that period of my earlier 
life when I worked for you, when the degradation yon 
speak of (there was no crime in it !) was borne cheerfully 
for your sake, and yours the holiday though mine the 
task — perhaps, hereafter, you will do me more justice. 
You left me, or were reft from me, and I gave all the 
little fortune that my mother had bequeathed us, to get 
some tidings from you. I received your letter — that 
bitter letter — and I cared not then that I was a beggar, 
since I was alone. You talk of what I have cost you — 

you talk ! — and you now ask me to — to merciful 

Heaven ! let me understand you — do you love Camilla ! 
Does she love you? Speak — speak — explain — what 
' new agony awaits me ? ” 

It was then that Sidney, affected and humbled, amidst 
all his more selfish sorrows, by his brother’s language 
and manner, related, as succinctly as he could, the history 
of his affection for Camilla, the circumstances of their 
engagement, and ended by placing before him the letter 
he had received from Mr. Beaufort. 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


345 


In spite of all his efforts for self-control, Philip’s 
anguish was so great, so visible, that Sidney, after look- 
ing at his working features, his trembling hands, for a 
moment, felt all the earthlier parts of his nature melt in a 
flow of generous sympathy and remorse. He flung him- 
self on the breast from which he had shrunk before, and 
cried, 

“ Brother, brother ! forgive me ; I see how I have 
wronged you. If she has forgotten me, if she love you, 
take her and be happy ! ” 

Philip returned his embrace, but without warmth, and 
then moved away ; and, again, in great disorder, paced 
the room. His brother only heard disjointed exclama- 
tions that seenfed to escape him unawares: “They said 
she loved me! Heaven give me strength! Mother — 
mother ! let me fulfil my vow ! Oh, that I had died ere 
this ! ” He stopped at last, and the large dews rolled 
down his forehead. 

“ Sidney ! ” said he, “ there is a mystery here that 1 
comprehend not. But my mind now is very confused. 
If she loves you — if! — is it possible for a woman to 
love two ? Well, well, I go to solve the riddle: wait 
here ! ” 

He vanished into the next room, and for nearly hall 
an hour Sidney was alone. He heard through the parti- 
tion murmured voices ; he caught more clearly the sound 
of Camilla’s sobs. The particulars of that interview be* 
tween Philip and Camilla, alone at first, (afterwards Mr 


29 * 


346 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


Robert Beaufort was re-admitted,) Philip never disclosed, 
nor could Sidney himself ever obtain a clear account from 
Camilla, who could not recall it, even years after, without 
great emotion. But at last the door was opened, and 
Philip entered, leading Camilla by the hand. His face 
was calm, and there was a smile on his lips ; a greater 
dignity than even that habitual to him was diffused over 
his whole person. Camilla was holding her handkerchief 
to her eyes, and weeping passionately. Mr. Beaufort 
followed them with a mortified and slinking air. 

“Sidney,” said Philip, “it is past. All is arranged. 
I yield to your earlier, and therefore better, claim. Mr. 
Beaufort consents to your union. He will tell you, at 
some fitter time, that our birthright is at fast made clear, 
and that there is no blot on the name we shall hereafter 
bear. Sidney, embrace your bride ! ” 

Amazed, delighted, and still half-incredulous, Sidney 
seized and kissed the hand of Camilla ; and as he then 
drew her to his breast, she said, as she pointed to Philip, 
“ Oh ! if you do love me as you say, see in him the 
generous, the noble — ” Fresh sobs broke off her speech, 
but as Sidney sought again to take her hand, she whis- 
pered, with a touching and womanly sentiment, “Ah! 

respect him : see ! ” and Sidney, lookiug then at his 

brother, saw, that though he still attempted to smile, his 
lip writhed, and his features were drawn together, as one 
whose frame is wrung by torture, but who struggles not 
to groan. 


NIGHT ANT) MORNING. 


347 


He flew to Philip, who, grasping his hand, held him 
back, and said. 

“I have fulfilled my vow ! I have given you up the 
only blessing my life has known. Enough ! you are 
happy, and I shall be so too, when God pleases to soften 
this blow. And now you must not wonder or blame me, 
if, though sc lately found, I leave you for awhile. Do 
me one kindness, — you Sidney — you Mr. Beaufort. Let 
the marriage take place at H— — , in the village church 
by which my mother sleeps ; let it be delayed till the suit 
is terminated ; by that time I shall hope to meet you all 
— to meet you, Camilla, as I ought to meet my brother’s 
wife : till then, my presence will not sadden your happi- 
ness. Do not seek to see me ; do not expect to hear from 
me. Hist ! be silent, all of you ; my heart is yet bruised 
and sore. 0 Thou,” and here, deepening his voice, he 
raised his arms, “Thou, who hast preserved my youth 
from such snares and such peril, who hast guided my 
steps from the abyss to which they wandered, and beneath 
whose hand I now bow, grateful if chastened, receive this 

offering, and bless that union ! Fare ye well.” 

2w 


348 


NIGHT AN1) MORNING. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“Heaven’s airs amid the harpstrings dwell; 

And we wish they ne’er may fade; 

They cease; and the soul is a silent cell, 

Where music never played. 

Dream follows dream through the long night-hours.” 

Wilson: The Past, a poem. 

The self-command which Philip had obtained for a 
while, deserted him when he was without the house. His 
mind felt broken up into chaos ; he hurried on, mechani- 
cally, on foot ; he passed street upon street, now solitary 
and deserted, as the lamps gleamed upon the thick snow 
The city was left behind him. He paused not, till, breath- 
less, and exhausted in' spirit if not in frame, he reached 
the church-yard where Catherine’s dust reposed. The 
snow had ceased to fall, but it lay deep over the graves ; 
the yew-trees, clad in their white shrouds, gleamed ghost- 
like through the dimness. Upon the rail that fenced the 
tomb yet hung a wreath that Fanny’s hand had placed 
there. But the flowers were hid ; it was a wreath of 
snow ! Through the intervals of the huge and still 
clouds, there gleamed a few melancholy stars. The very 
calm of the holy spot seemed unutterably sad. The 
Death of the year overhung the Death of man. And as 
Philip bent over the tomb, within and without all was 
Ice and Night ! 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


34S 


For hours he remained on that spot, alone with his 
grief and absorbed in his prayer. Long past midnight 
Fanny heard his step on the stairs, and the door of his 
chamber close with unwonted violence. She heard, too, 
for some time, his heavy tread on the floor, till suddenly 
all was silent. The next morning, when, at the usual 
hour, Sarah entered to unclose the shutters and light the 
fire, she was startled by wild exclamations and wilder 
laughter. The fever had mounted to the brain — he was 
delirious. 

For several weeks Philip Beaufort was in imminent 
danger ; for a considerable part of that time he was un- 
conscious ; and when the peril was past, his recovery was 
slow and gradual. It was the only illness to which his 
vigorous frame had ever been subjected : and the fever 
had perhaps exhausted him more than it might have 
done one in whose constitution the disease had encoun- 
tered less resistance. His brother, imagining he had 
gone abroad, was unacquainted with his danger. None 
tended his sick-bed save the hireling nurse, the fee’d 
physician, and the unpurchasable heart of the only being 
to whom the wealth and rank of the Heir of Beaufort 
Court were as nothing. Here was reserved for him 
Fate’s crowning lesson, in the vanity of those human 
wishes which anchor in gold and power. For how many 
years had the exile and the outcast pined indignantly for 
his birthright ! — Lo ! it was won ; and with it came the * 

srushed heart and the smitten frame As he slowly re- 
covered sense and reasoning, these thoughts struck him 

II —30 


350 NIGHT AND MORNING. 

forcibly He felt as if he were rightly punished in having 
disdained, during his earlier youth, the enjoyments within 
his reach. Was there nothing in the glorious health — • 
the unconquerable hope — the heart, if wrung, and chafed, 
and sorely tried, free at least from the direst anguish of 
the passions, disappointed and jealous love ? Though 
now certain, if spared to the future, to be rich, powerful, 
righted in name and honor, might he not from that sick- 
bed envy his earlier past? even when with his brother 
orphan he wandered through the solitary fields, and felt 
with what energies we are gifted when we have something 
to protect ; or when loving and beloved, he saw life smile 
out to him in the eyes of Eugenie ; or when, after that 
melancholy loss, he wrestled boldly, and breast to breast 
with Fortune, in a far land, for honor and independence ? 
There is something in severe illness, especially if it be in 
violent contrast to the usual strength of the body, which 
has often the most salutary effect upon the mind ; which 
often, by the affliction of the frame, roughly wins us from 
the too morbid pains of the heart ; which makes us feel 
that, in mere liee, enjoyed as the robust enjoy it, God’s 
Great Principle of Good breathes and moves. We rise 
thus from the sick-bed softened and humbled, and more 
disposed to look around us for such blessings as we may 
yet command. 

The return of Philip, his danger, the necessity of exer- 
tion, of tending him, had roused Fanny from a state w'hich 
might -otherwise have been permanently dangerous to the 
intellect so lately ripened within her. With what patience, 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


351 


with what fortitude, with what unutterable thought and 
devotion, she fulfilled that best and holiest woman’s duty, 
— let the man whose struggle with life and death has been 
blessed with the vigil that wakes and saves, imagine to 
himself. And in all her anxiety and terror, she had 
glimpses of a happiness which it seemed to her almost 
criminal to acknowledge. For, even in his delirium, her 
voice seemed to have some soothing influence over him, 
and he was calmer while she was by. And when at last 
he was conscious, her face was the first he saw, and her 
name the first which his lips uttered. As then he grew 
gradually stronger, and the bed was deserted for the sofa, 
he took more than the old pleasure in hearing her read 
to him ; which she did with a feeling that lecturers cannot 
teach. And once, in a pause from this occupation, he 
spoke to her frankly,— he sketched his past history — his 
last sacrifice. And Fanny, as she wept, learned that he 
was no more another’s ! 

It has been said that this man, naturally of an active 
and impatient temperament, had been little accustomed 
to seek those resources which are found in books. But 
somehow in that sick chamber — it was Fanny’s voice — 
the voice of her over whose mind he had once so haughtily 
• lamented, that taught him how much of aid and solace 
the Herd of Men derive from the Everlasting Genius of 
the Few. 

Gradually, and interval by interval, moment by moment, 
thus drawn together, all thought beyond shut out (for, 
however crushing for the time the blow that had stricken 


352 


NIGHT A-ND MORNING. 


Philip from health and reason, he was not that slave to 
a guilty fancy, that he could voluntarily indulge, — that 
he would not earnestly seek to shun — all sentiments that 
yet turned with unholy yearning towards the betrothed 
of his brother); — gradually, I say, and slowly, came 
those progressive and delicious epochs which mark a 
revolution in the affections: — unspeakable gratitude, 
brotherly tenderness, the united strength of compassion 
and respect that he had felt for Fanny, seemed, as . he 
gained health, to mellow into feelings yet more exquisite 
and deep. He could no longer delude himself with a 
rain and imperious belief that it was a defective mind 
that his heart protected ; he began again to be sensible 
to the rare beauty of that tender face — more lovely, per- 
haps, for the paleness that had replaced its bloom. The 
fancy that he had so imperiously checked before — before 
he saw Camilla, returned to him, and neither pride nor 
honor had row the right to chase the soft wings away 
One evening, fancying himself alone, he fell into a pro- 
found reverie ; he awoke with a start, and the exclama- 
tion, “ Was it true love that I ever felt for Camilla, or a 
passion, a frenzy, a delusion ? ” 

His exclamation was answered by a sound that seemed 
both of joy and grief. He looked up, and saw Fanny 
before him ; the light of the moon, just risen, fell full on 
her form, but her hands were clasped before her face ; ho 
heard her sob. 

“ Fanny, dear Fanny ! ” he cried, and sought to th:ow 
himself from the sofa to her feet. But she drew herself 
away, and fled from the chamber silent as a dream 


NIGHT AND MORNING 


353 


Philip rose, and, for the first time since his illness, 
walked, but with feeble steps, to and fro the room. With 
what different emotions from those in which last, in fierce 
and intolerable agony, he had paced that narrow boun- 
dary I Returning health crept through his veins — a 
serene, a kindly, a celestial joy circumfused his heart. 
Had the time yet come when the old Plorimel had melted 
into snow ; when the new and the true one, with Its warm 
life, its tender beauty, its maiden wealth of love, had risen 
before his hopes ? He paused before the window : the 
spot within seemed so confined, the night without so 
calm and lovely, that he forgot his still-clinging malady, 
and unclosed the casement : the air came soft and fresh 
upon his temples, and the church-tower and spire, for the 
first time, did not seem to him to rise in gloom against 
the heavens. Even the grave-stone of Catherine, half in 
moonlight, half in shadow, appeared to him to wear a 
smile. His mother’s memory was become linked with the 
living Fanny. 

“ Thou art vindicated — thy Sidney is happy,” he 
murmured : “ to her the thanks ! ” 

Fair hopes and soft thoughts busy within him, he re- 
mained at the casement till the increasing chill warned 
him of the danger he incurred. 

The next day, when the physician visited him, he found 
the fever had returned. For many days, Philip was 
again in danger — dull, unconscious even of the step and 
voice of Fanny. 

He woke at last as from a long and profound sleep ; — 
30* x 


854 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


woke so refreshed, so revived, that he felt at once that 
some great crisis had been past, and that at length he 
had struggled back to the sunny shores of Life. 

By his bed-side sate Liancourt, who, long alarmed at * 
his disappearance, had at last contrived, with the help 
of Mr. Barlow, to trace him to Gawtrey’s house, and had 
for several days taken share in the vigils of poor Fanny. 

While he was yet explaining all this to Philip, and 
congratulating him on his evident recovery, the physician 
entered to confirm the congratulation. In a few days 
the invalid was able to quit his room, and nothing but 
change of air seemed necessary for his convalescence. It 
was then that Liancourt, who had for two days seemed 
impatient to unburden himself of some communication, 
thus addressed him : — 

“ My dear friend, I have learned, now, your story from 
Barlow, who called several times during your relapse ; 
and who is the more anxious about you, as the time for 
the decision of your case now draws near. The sooner 
you quit this house, the better. ” 

“ Quit this house I and why ? *s there not one in this 
house to whom I owe my fortune and my life ? ” 

“ Yes ; and for that reason I say, ‘ Go hence : ’ it is the 
only return you can make her.” 

“ Pshaw ! — speak intelligibly.” 

“I will,” said Liancourt, gravely. “I have been a 
watcher with her by your sick-bed, and I know what you 
must feel already: — nay, I must confess that even the 
old servant has ventured to speak to me. You have in- 
spired that poor girl with feelings dangerous to her peace * 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


355 


“Ha!” cried Philip, with such joy that Liancourt 
frowned, and said, — “ Hitherto I have believed you too 
honorable to ” 

“ So you think she loves me ?” “interrupted Philip.” 

“Yes; what then? You, the heir of Beaufort Court, 

- — of a rental of 20,000Z. a-year, — of an historical name, 

- — you cannot marry this poor girl ? ” 

“Well! — I will consider what you say, and, at all • 
events, I will leave the house to attend the result of the 
trial. Let us talk no more on the subject now.” 

Philip had the penetration to perceive that Liancourt, 
who was greatly moved by the beauty, the innocence, and 
the unprotected position of Fanny, had not confined cau- 
tion to himself; that with his characteristic well-meaning 
bluntness, and with the license of a man somewhat ad- 
vanced in years, he had spoken to Fanny herself : for 
Fanny now seemed to shun Philip, — her eyes were 
heavy, her manner was embarrassed. He saw the change, 
but it did not grieve him ; he hailed the omens which he 
drew from it. 

And at last he and Liancourt went. He was absent 
three weeks, during which time the formality of the 
friendly lawsuit w$s decided in the plaintiff’s favor ; and 
the public were in ecstacies at the noble and sublime 
conduct of Mr. Robert Beaufort ; who, the moment he 
had discovered a document which he might so easily have 
buried- for ever in oblivion, voluntarily agreed to dispos- 
sess himself of estates he had so long enjoyed, preferring 
conscience to lucre. Some persons observed that it was 


856 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


reported that Mr. Philip Beaufort had also been generous 
— that he had agreed to give up the estates for his 
uncle’s life, and was only in the meanwhile to receive a 
fourth of the revenues. But the universal comment was, 
“ He could not have done loss ! ” Mr. Robert Beaufort 
was, as Lord Lilburne had once observed, a man who 
was born, made, and reared to be spoken well of by the 
* world ; and it was a comfort to him now, poor man, to 
feel that his character was so highly estimated. If 
Philip should live to the age of one hundred, he will 
never become so respectable and popular a man with the 
crowd as his worthy uncle. But does it much matter ? 

Philip returned to H the eve before the day fixed 

for the marriage of his brother and Camilla 


CHAPTER XXII. 

NuArrof — Ai0ijpr£ kcu 'H fiepa e&ycvovro .* — Hes. 

The sun of early May shone cheerfully over the quiet 

suburb of H . In the thoroughfares life was astir. 

It was the hour of noon — the hour at -which commerce is 
busy, and streets are full. The old retired trader, eyeing 
wistfully the rolling coach or the oft-pausing omnibus, 
was breathing the fresh and scented air in the broadest 
and most crowded road, from which, afar in the distance, 
rose the spires of the metropolis. The boy let loose 


* From Night, Sunshine and Day arose 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 357 

from tne day-school was hurrying home to a liner, his 
satchel on his back ; the ballad-singer was sending her 
cracked wine through the obscurer alleys, where the 
baker’s boy, with puddings on his tray, and the smart 
maid-servant, despatched for porter, paused to listen. 
And round the shops where cheap shawls and cottons 
tempted the female eye, many a loitering girl detained 
her impatient mother, and eyed the tickets and calculated 
her hard-gained savings for the Sunday gear. And in 
the corners of the streets steamed the itinerant kitchens 
of the pie-men, and rose the sharp cry, “All hot ! all 
hot ! ” in the ear of infant and ragged hunger. And 
amidst them all rolled on some lazy coach of ancient 
merchant or withered maiden, unconscious of any life, 
but that creeping through their own languid veins. And 
before the house in which Catherine died, there loitered 
many stragglers, gossips of the hamlet, subscribers to the 
news-room hard by, to guess, and speculate, and wonder 
why, from the church behind, there rose the merry peal 
of the marriage-bell ! 

At length, along the broad road leading from the 
great city, there were seen rapidly advancing three car- 
riages of a very different fashion from those familiar to 
the suburb. On they came ; swiftly they whirled round 
the angle that conducted to the church ; the hoofs of the 
gay steeds ringing cheerily on the ground ; the white 
favors of the servants gleaming in the sun. Happy is 
the bride the sun shines on 1 And when the carriages 
bad thus vanished, the scattered groups melted into one 


358 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


crowd, and took their way to the church. They stood 
idling without in the burial-ground ; many of them round 
the fence that guarded from their footsteps Catherine’s 
lonely grave. All in nature was glad, exhilarating, and 
yet serene ; a genial freshness breathed through the soft 
air ; not a cloud was to be seen in the smiling azure ; 
even the old dark yews seemed happy in their everlasting 
verdure. The bell ceased, and then even the crowd grew 
silent ; and not a sound was heard in that solemn spot 
whose demesnes are consecrated alike the Birth, the Mar- 
riage, and the Death. 

At length there came forth from the church-door the 
goodly form of a rosy beadle. Approaching the groups, 
he whispered the better-dressed and commanded the rag- 
ged, remonstrated with the old, and lifted his cane against 
the young ; and the result of all was, that the church- 
yard, not without many a murmur and expostulation, was 
cleared, and the crowd fell back in the space behind the 
gates of the principal entrance, where they swayed and 
gaped and chattered round the carriages, which were to 
bear away the bridal party. 

Within the church, as the ceremony was now concluded, 
Philip Beaufort conducted, hand-in-hand, silently along 
the aisle, his brother’s wife. 

Leaning on his stick, his cold sneer upon his thin lip, 
Lord Lilburne limped, step by step with the pair, though 
a little apart from them, glancing from moment to mo- 
ment at the face of Philip Beaufort, where he had hoped 
wO read a grief that he could not detect. Lord Lilburne 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 359 

had carefully refrained from an interview with Philip till 
that day, and he now only came to the wedding as a sur- 
geon goes to an hospital, to examine a disease he had 
been told would be great and sore : he was disappointed. 
Close behind, followed Sidney, radiant with joy, and 
bloom, and beauty ; and his kind guardian, the tears 
rolling down his eyes, murmured blessings as he looked 
upon him. Mrs. Beaufort had declined attending the 
ceremony — her nerves were too weak — but, behind, at a 
longer interval, came Robert Beaufort, sober, staid, col- 
lected as ever to outward seeming ; but a close observer 
might have seen that his eye had lost its habitual com- 
placent cunning, that his step was more heavy, his stoop 
more joyless. About his air there was a something crest- 
fallen. The consciousness of acres had passed away from 
his portly presence ; he was no longer a possessor ; but 
a pensioner. The rich man, who had decided as he pleased 
on the happiness of others, was a cipher ; he had ceased 
to have any interest in anything. What to him the mar- 
riage of his daughter now ? Her children would not be 
the heirs of Beaufort. As Camilla kindly turned round, 
and through happy tears waited for his approach, to clasp 
his hand, he forced a smile, but it was sickly and piteous. 
He longed to creep away, and be alone. 

My father ! ” said Camilla, in her sweet low voice ; 
and she extricated herself from Philip, and threw herself 
on his breast. 

“ She is a good child,” said Robert Beaufort, vacantly; 
and, turning his dry eyes to the gronp, he caught in 


360 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


stinctively at his customary common-places ; — “ A.nd, s 
good child, Mr. Sidney, makes a good wife ! ” 

The clergyman bowed as if the compliment were ad- 
dressed to himself : he was the only man there whom 
Robert Beaufort could now deceive. 

“ My sister,” said Philip Beaufort, as once more lean- 
ing on his arm, they paused before the church-door, “ may 
Sidney love and prize you as — as I would have done; 
and believe me, both of you, I have no regret, no memory 
that wounds me now.” 

He dropped the hand, and motioned to her father to 
lead her to the carriage. Then winding his arm into 
Sidney’s, he said, — 

“Wait till they are gone: I have one word yet with 
you. Go on, gentlemen,” 

The clergyman bowed, and walked through the church- 
yard. But Lilburne, pausing and surveying Philip -Beau- 
fort, said to him, whisperingly, — 

“And so much for feeling — the folly ! So much for 
generosity — the delusion! Happy man!” 

“I am thoroughly happy, Lord Lilburne.” 

“Are you ? — Then, it was neither feeling nor generosity; 
and we were taken in ! Good day.” With that he limped 
slowly to the gate. 

Philip answered not the sarcasm even by a look. For. 
at that moment, a loud shout was set up by the mob 
without — they had caught a glimpse of the bride. 

“ Come, Sidney, this way,” he said ; “ I must not de- 
tail you long.” 


i 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


361 


Arm in arm they passed out of the church, and turned 
10 the spot hard by, where the flowers smiled up to them 
from the stone on their mother’s grave. 

The old inscription had been effaced, and the name of 
Catherine Beaufort was placed upon the stone. 

“Brother,” said Philip, “do not forget this grave: 
years hence, when children play around your own hearth. 
Observe, the naifle of Catherine Beaufort is fresher on 
the stone than the dates of birth and death — the name 
was only inscribed there to-day — your wedding-day 1 
Brother, by this grave we are now indeed united.” 

“ Oh, Philip 1 ” cried Sidney, in deep emotion, clasping 
the hand stretched out to him ; “ I feel, I feel how noble, 
how great you are — that you have sacrificed more than 
I dreamed of ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Philip, with a smile. “No talk of this. 
I am happier than you deem me. Go back now — she 
waits you.” 

“And you? — leave you! — alone!” 

“ Not alone,” said Philip, pointing to the grave. 

Scarce had he spoken when, from the gate, came the 
shrill, clear voice of Lord Lilburne, — 

“We wait for Mr. Sidney Beaufort.” 

Sidney passed his hand over his eyes, wrung the hand 
of his brother once more, and in a moment was by 
Camilla’s side. 

Another shout — the whirl of the wheels — the tramp- 
ing o'f feet — the distant hum and murmur — and all was 
still. 

II —31 


362 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


The clerk returned to lock up the church — he did not 
observe where Philip stood in the shadow of the wall — 
and went home to talk of the gay wedding, and inquire 
at what hour the funeral of a young woman, his next- 
door neighbor, would take place the next day. 

It might be a quarter of an hour after Philip was thus 
left — nor had he moved from the spot — when he felt 
his sleeve pulled gently. He turned^ round and saw 
before him the wistful face of Fanny 1 

“ So you would not come to the wedding ? ” said he. 
“No. But I fancied you might be here alone, — and 
sad.” 

“And you will not even wear the dress I gave you ? ” 
“Another time. Tell me, are you unhappy ?” 
“Unhappy, Fanny! No; look around. The very 
burial-ground has a smile. See the laburnums clustering 
over the wall, listen to the birds on the dark yews above, 
and yonder see even the butterfly has settled upon her 
grave! — I am not unhappy.” As he thus spoke he 
looked at her earnestly, and, taking both her hands in his, 
drew her gently towards him, and continued : — “ Fanny, 
do you remember, that, leaning over that gate, I once 
spoke to you of the happiness of marriage where two 
hearts are united. Nay, Fanny, nay, I must go on. It 
was here in this spot, — it was here that I first saw you 
on my return to England. I came to seek the dead, and 
I have thought since, it was my mother’s guardian spirit 
that, drew me hither to find you — the living ! And 
often afterwards, Fanny, you would come with me here 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


363 


when, blinded and dull as I was, I came to brood and to 
repine, insensible of the treasures even then perhaps 
within my reach. But, best as it was ; the ordeal through 
which I have passed has made me more grateful for the 
prize I now dare to hope for. On this grave your hand 
daily renewed the flowers. By this grave, the link 
between the Time and the Eternity, whose lessons we 
have read together, will you consent to record our vows ? 
Fanny, dearest, fairest, tenderest, best, I love you, and 
at last as alone you should be loved I — I woo you as my 
wife ! Mine, not for a season, but for ever — for ever, 
even when these graves are opened, and the World 
shrivels like a scroll. Do you understand me ? — do you 

heed me? — or have I dreamed that that ” 

He stopped short — a dismay seized him at her silence. 
Had he been mistaken in his divine belief? — the fear 
was momentary : for Fanny, who had recoiled as he 
spoke, now placing her hands to her temples, gazing oil 
him, breathless and with lips apart, as if, indeed, with 
great effort and struggle her modest spirit conceived the 
possibility of the happiness that broke upon it, advanced 
timidly, her face suffused in blushes ; and, looking into 
his eyes, as if she would read into his very soul, said, 
with an accent, the intenseness of which showed that her 
whole fate hung on his answer — 

“ But this is pity ? — they have told you that I in 

short, you are generous — you — you Oh, deceive 

me notl Do you love her still? — Can you — do you 
love the humble, foolish Fanny?” 

2x 


364 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


“As God shall judge me, sweet one, I am sincere ! 1 

have survived a passion — never so deep, so tender, so 
entire as that I now feel for you ! And oh, Fanny, hear 
this true confession ! It was you — you to whom my 
heart turned before I saw Camilla 1 — against that impulse 
I struggled in the blindness of a haughty error ! ” 

Fanny uttered a low and suppressed cry of delight and 
rapture. Philip passionately continued : — 

“ Fanny, make blessed the life you have saved. Fate 
destined us for each other. Fate for me has ripened 
your sweet mind. Fate for you has softened this rugged 
heart. We may have yet much to bear and much to 
learn. We will console and teach each other ! ” 

He drew hei/ to his breast as he spoke — drew her 
trembling, blushing, confused, but no more reluctant ; and 
there, by the Grave that had been so memorable a scene 
in their common history, were murmured those vows in 
which all this world knows of human happiness is 
treasured and recorded — love that takes the sting from 
grief, and faith that gives eternity to love. All silent, 
yet all serene around them 1 Above, the heaven, — at 
their feet, the grave : — For the love, the grave 1 — for 
the faith, the heaven I 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


365 


CHAPTER THE LAST. 

“A labore reclinat otium.” * — Horat. 

I feel that there is some justice in the affection the 
general reader entertains for the old-fashioned, and now 
somewhat obsolete custom, of giving to him, at the close 
of a work, the latest news of those who sought his ac- 
quaintance through its progress. 

The weak, but well-meaning Smith, no more oppressed 
by the evil influence of his brother, had continued to pass 
his days in comfort and respectability on the income 
settled on him by Philip Beaufort. Mr. and Mrs. Roger 
Morton still live, and have just resigned their business to 
their eldest son ; retiring themselves to a small villa ad- 
joining the town in which they had made their fortune. 
Mrs. Morton is very apt, when she goes out to tea, to 
talk of her dear deceased sister-in-law, the late Mrs. Beau- 
fort, and of her own remarkable kindness to her nephew 
when a little boy. She observes that, in fact, the young 
men owe everything to Mr. Roger and herself ; and. 
indeed, though Sidney was never of a grateful disposition, 
and has not been near her since, yet the elder brother, 
the Mr. Beaufort, always evinces his respect to them by 
the yearly present of a fat buck. She then comments on 
the ups and downs of life ; and observes that it is a pity 
her son Tom preferred the medical profession to the 

* Leisure unbends itself from labor. 

31 * 


366 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


church. — Their cousin, Mr. Beaufort, has two livings. 
To all this Mr. Roger says nothing, except an occasional 
“ Thank heaven, I want no man’s help ! I am as well 
to do as my neighbors. But that’s neither here nor 
there.” 

There are some readers — they who do not thoroughly 
consider the truths of this life — who will yet ask, “But 
how is Lord Lilburne punished!” Punished? ay and 
indeed, how ? The world, and not the poet, must answer 
that question. Crime is punished from without. If 
Yice is punished, it must be from within. The Lilburnes 
of this hollow world are not to be pelted with the soft 
roses of poetical justice. They who ask why he is not 
punished, may be the first to doff the hat to the equipage 
in which my lord lolls through the streets ! The only 
offence he habitually committed of a nature to bring the 
penalties of detection, he renounced the moment he per- 
ceived there was danger of discovery ! he gambled no 
more after Philip’s hint. He was one of those, some 
years after, most bitter upon a certain nobleman charged 
with unfair play — one of those who took the accusation 
as proved ; and whose authority settled all disputes 
thereon. 

But, if no thunderbolt falls on Lord Lilburne’s head — 
if he is fated still to eat, and drink, and to die on his bed, 
he may yet taste the ashes of the Dead Sea fruit which 
his hands have culled. He is grown old. His infirm- 
ities increase upon him ; his sole resources of pleasure 
— the senses — are dried up. For him there is no longer 
savor in the viands, or sparkle in the wine,— man delights 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


367 


him not, nor woman neither. He is alone with Old Age. 
and in sight of Death 

With the exception of Simon, who died in his chair 
not many days after Sidney’s marriage, Robert Beaufort 
is the only one among the more important agents left at 
the last scene of this history who has passed from our 
mortal stage. After the marriage of hi,s daughter, he for 
some time moped and drooped. 

But Philip learned from Mr. Blackwell of the will that 
Robert had made previously to the lawsuit; and by 
which, had the lawsuit failed, his rights would yet have 
been preserved to him. Deeply moved by a generosity 
he could not have expected from his uncle, and not paus- 
ing to inquire too closely how far it was to be traced to 
the influence of Arthur, Philip so warmly expressed his 
gratitude, and so surrounded Mr. Beaufort with affection- 
ate attentions, that the poor man began to recover his 
self-respect, — began even to regard the nephew he had 
s(f long dreaded, as a son, — to forgive him for not 
marrying Camilla. And, perhaps, to his astonishment, 
an act in his life for which the customs of the world (that 
never favor natural ties not previously sanctioned by the 
legal) would have rather censured than praised, became 
his consolation ; and the memory he was most proud to 
recall. He gradually recovered his spirits ; he was very 
fond of looking over that will ; he carefully preserved it ; 
he even flattered himself that it was necessary to preserve 
Philip from all possible litigation hereafter ; for if the 
estates were not legally Philip’s, why, then, they were his 
to dispose of as he pleased. He was never mdre happy 


368 * NIGHT AND MORNING. 

than when his successor was by his side ; and was certainly 
a more cheerful, and, I doubt not, a better man — during 
the few years in which he survived the lawsuit — than 
ever he had been before. He died — still member for 
the county, and still quoted as a pattern to county mem- 
bers — in Philip’s arms ; and on his lips there was a 
smile, that even JAlburne would have called sincere. 

Mrs. Beaufort, after her husband’s death, established 
herself in London ; and could never be persuaded to visit 
Beaufort Court. She took a companion, who more than 
replaced, in her eyes, the absence of Camilla. 

And Camilla — Spencer — Sidney. They live still by 
the gentle Lake, happy in their own serene joys and 
graceful leisure ; shunning alike ambition and its trials, 
action and its sharp vicissitudes ; envying no one, covet- 
ous of nothing ; making around them, in the working 
world, something of the old pastoral and golden holiday. 
If Camilla had at one time wavered in her allegiance to 
Sidney, her good and simple heart has long since been 
entirely regained by his devotion ; and, as might be ex- 
pected from her disposition, she loved him better after 
marriage than before. 

Philip had gone through severer trials than Sidney. 
But, had their earlier fates been reversed, and that spirit, 
in youth so haughty and self-willed, been lapped in ease 
and luxury, would Philip now be a better or a happier 
man ? Perhaps, too, for a less tranquil existence than 
his brother, Philip yet may be reserved ; but, in propor- 
tion to the uses of our destiny, do we repose or toil : he 
who never knows pain knows but the half of pleasure 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


369 


The lot of whatever is most noble on the earth below 
falls not amidst the rosy Gardens of the Epicurean. We 
may envy the man who enjoys and rests ; but the smile 
of Heaven settles rather on the front of him who labors 
and aspires. 

And did Philip ever regret the circumstances that had 
given him Fanny for the partner of his life ? To some 
who take their notions of the Ideal from the conventional 
rules of romance, rather than from their own perceptions 
of what is true, this narrative would have been more 
pleasing had Philip never loved but Fanny. But all that 
had led to that love had only served to render it more 
enduring and concentrated. Man’s strongest and worthi- 
est affection is his last — is the one that unites and em- 
bodies all his past dreams of what is excellent, — the one 
from which Hope springs out the brighter from former 
disappointments — the one in which the Memories are 
the most tender and the most abundant — the one which, 
replacing all others, nothing hereafter can replace. 

And now, ere the scene closes, and the audience, whom 
perhaps the actors may have interested for awhile, dis- 
perse, to forget amidst the pursuits of actual life the 
Shadows that have amused an hour, or beguiled a care, 
let the curtain fall on one happy picture : 

It is some years after the marriage of Philip and Fanny. 
It is a summer’s morning. In a small old-fashioned room 
at Beaufort Court, with its casements open to the gardens, 
stood Philip, having just entered ; and near the window 
sat. Fanny, his boy by her side. She was at the mother’s 
Y 


370 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


hardest task — the first lessons to the first-born child ; 
and as the boy looked up at her sweet earnest face with a 
smile of intellegence on his own, yon might have seen at 
a glance how well understood were the teacher and the 
pupil. Yes ; whatever might have been wanting in the 
Virgin to the full development of mind, the cares of the 
Mother had supplied. When a being was born to lean 
on her alone — dependent on her providence for life — 
then, hour after hour, step after step, in the progress of 
infant destinies, had the reason of the mother grown in 
the child’s growth, adapting itself to each want that it 
must foresee, and taking its perfectness and completion 
from the breath of the New Love ! 

The child caught sight of Philip, and rushed to em- 
brace him. 

u See ! ” whispered Fanny, as she also hung upon him, 
and strange recollections of her own mysterious childhood 
crowded upon her, — “ see,” whispered she, with a blush 
half of shame and half of pride, “ the poor idiot girl is the 
teacher of your child 1 ” 

“ And,” answered Philip, “ whether for child or mother, 
what teacher is like Love?” 

Thus saying, he took the boy into his arms ; and, as he 
bent over those rosy cheeks, Fanny saw, from the move- 
ment of his lips and the moisture in his eyes, that he bless- 
ed God. He looked up on the Mother’s face, he glanced 
round on the flowers and foliage of the luxurious summer, 
and again he blessed God : And without and within, it 
was Light and Morning! 


the end. 















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